Shadow Stabbing
by Begonias
Summary: Another death plagues the city of Tulsa.
1. Chapter 1

_So, you've got to tell me if you think this should go up to an M rating. I realize it's a little more sexually charged (not overly explicit) but I just can't gauge where T becomes M, you feel me? I mean, there are shows like Skins out there that are pretty explicit yet are still marketed to teenagers and young adults._

 _But, I digress. Please review. Pardon typos. I'm trying to get back into the swing of things._

 _I don't own. Mature, sexual content. Title taken from a Cake song._

* * *

 **Shadow Stabbing  
** Begonias

* * *

 _April 21, 1968—12:28 AM_

The girl underneath you is all porcelain skin, legs, and dark hair, and she moves with a deft you didn't know was possible, flipping the mass of curls on her head behind her shoulder in a way that turns you on more than it should.

You met her at Buck's, and internally, you almost laugh, though it kind of breaks your heart at the same time: you're bearing a striking similarity to hoods like Tim Shepard or Dallas Winston in the fact that you don't even know her name.

She's not your usual cup of tea—Cathy Carlson and that stuck up blonde Soc girl in yellow from your sophomore year come to mind—but she's there and despite her greasy demeanor that you've never been a fan of, she's willing and still real pretty and you need a distraction.

You've been doing this more and more often recently. It's something you almost feel guilty about. Almost. You usually like to get to know the girl first, but now, it just ain't important. She's got the eyes of a feral animal, seductive, and that's all you can really think about because that's all that matters.

You take a long drag on your weed as she moans in your ear and you forget your guilt.

* * *

 _April 21, 1968—3:46 AM_

"Jesus," your oldest brother says. You look up at the clock in your kitchen. It's two minutes fast. "What are you doin'?"

It's a Saturday. Or, well, it's a Sunday. So he can get mad but he can't get too mad.

"I would say I'm just driftin'," you reply, even though it don't make a lick of sense. You remember Dustin Hoffman saying something similar to that when asked the same question in _The Graduate._ It's almost like your old, movie-loving self has returned, and that this past month hasn't even happened. It's too bad that now you can't even get through a movie without getting too jittery and leaving. The dark becomes suffocating after a while.

"I'm worried about you, is all."

"Well, don't." You don't recognize yourself when you say it. Your voice sounds a little too rough around the edges. Also, although you would never say this out loud, you're a little worried about yourself too.

"You know I always will, Ponyboy. Always." He doesn't ask where you've been and you're more relieved than you would like to admit. You ain't exactly proud of your late night escapades.

"You really ain't gotta, Dar," you say, and crack a smile. You're hoping Darry doesn't notice how hard it is for you to fake one. "I'm okay. I swear, I never gotta worry 'cause I know you're always around, worryin' enough for the both of us." The smile becomes bigger, less forced.

Initially, he looks reluctant but he says nothing. He returns the smile.

It ain't hard for you to see that childlike eagerness in his eyes, the quickness of his motions—he wants nothing more than for you to be alright. To be _right_. He don't deserve to have such a shit for a brother. You swear you see him pick out grey hairs every once in a while.

You light a cigarette in the house even though you ain't deservin' of the comfort it provides. Watching the smoke, you wonder how you turned out to be so wrong.

* * *

 _April 21, 1968_ _—10:18 AM_

"You have a good night last night, Pone?"

Looking up from your book, your brother smiles. He's all straight white teeth and blond hair, that lucky golden god. Living with him for years doesn't change the fact that sometimes, your brother's handsomeness just catches you off guard. He sits down beside you, the couch shifting under his weight.

Despite his smile, despite his inquisition, you can tell by the way he's carrying himself that he's walking on thin ice. Neither of them know how to talk to you. It's like fucking Windrixville all over again.

"Yeah, Sodapop." Another strained smile. It ain't as pearly white or nice lookin' as his. "It was alright."

The two of you ain't been talking much since it all went down. You never talked much anyway before, but even conversation with your favorite person has seemed kind of like chore recently. Soda's been nothing but distant, not even in the harmful way. He just knows what you're going through and knows what you want. He reads you like the back of his hand, and you appreciate the space more than words could say.

Uncharacteristically, last night you crawled into his bed, like you were fourteen again and even though the nightmares are still there, you've been able to tamper them down without the help of Soda. Regardless of the intervals between your interactions, he reached over you and the connection was there again, like there was no time period of distance, at least for a little while.

Soda knows the score. You lived a debauched lifestyle briefly last night at Buck's place and even though you didn't say anything to him about it, he knew it in that brotherly sixth sense he has.

And now, he gets to make fun of you for it. You see the way he breathes a little easier, knowing he has an excuse to act brotherly for once. "Just alright, huh?" he asks, trying to stop his grin from spreading. "You, uh, you do anything fun?"

You ain't the biggest fan of lying to him, but you also ain't exactly happy about the way you go from girl to girl in the spare bedroom Dally used to stay in at Buck's. You always come home smelling like booze and cigs among things.

"Just drove around with Ken up the strip," you tell him. Ken Davis ain't a star student, but he's greasy and he's trustworthy as hell, and your brothers know him for the most part and ultimately approve. You decide to add more even though it's not exactly necessary. "Not much else to do, ya dig?"

He knows you're lying, and you wonder if you've just somehow lost your ability to spin a story with ease in the last month when things changed drastically again for you. But regardless, he's still smiling. Almost beaming. "I definitely dig that." Then, Sodapop gives you that look again, the one that lets you know you'll probably be getting a lot of shit from Two-Bit later. You rub your neck absentmindedly and when you look at your hands, you see the same shade of ruby red lipstick Sheryl (or was it Sharon?) was wearing the night before.

* * *

 _April 23, 1968—5:55 PM_

All you do is write these days. The stories of Johnny, Bob, and Dallas, born in blood, fire, and tragic circumstance, awaken a need to express yourself and you love the rush it provides.

You write and write and hole yourself up in your room and neglect homework.

Novels. Poetry. Short stories. Hell, even journalism. It all sounds so wonderful and for the first time in your life, you feel like there's a crystal clear path you can travel down. It's beckoning, and for once, you're not drifting. You're not blindly wandering into a life you know nothing about.

There's a constant storm inside you, but the simple feeling of a pen scratching against loose-leaf is enough of a release for that it can be tamed, at least for a short while. The storm isn't gone but it's bottled temporarily. You try to throw yourself into your future so the memories of the past can't catch up.

It's cold outside for April, frost lingering on the scratched windows of your bedroom. Watching the light snow falling is about as interesting as watching paint dry. You wonder why you're wasting your time looking outside and thinking when you could be doing something productive. Like writing. It don't involve much thought. You just write and you're gone.

You know Darry's worried. He's a goddamn open book. Sodapop's a whole 'nother story. Not only is he worried but he's standoffish, remaining silent and out of your way like if he says or does the wrong thing to you, you'll completely shatter, like a porcelain doll. A few days ago was the most interaction the two of you have had in forever. He's obviously trying to counteract Darry's overbearing ways by giving you space. There's just no in-between in this family.

You also know you should be making at least a slight effort. You know you're sick, they all know it too, even the ones who are so close you're not brothers but you might as well be. It's practically broadcast over the whole nation. If you weren't sick, you'd be able to eat without feeling sick, without seeing the blood. You'd be able to do something other than wallow around in your own miserable existence. You'd be able to smile and feel it, you'd be able to realize the issue at hand and move on like a fuckin' _normal_ person, for Christ's sake.

So, as a distraction, you throw yourself into your own created universes. You throw yourself into the girls at Buck's who do things that many girls aren't willing to do.

It's much better than accepting the reality.

Yes, you can't accept the reality. You've always been a denier. Soda, too, while Darry yells and on rare occasions, hits. And now, you can't bring yourself to face the fact your friend, your idiot friend, Curly Shepard, has been dead almost a month.


	2. Chapter 2

_I don't know if you guys noticed, but I totally messed up the first chapter by having the Mark Jennings reference. This takes place quite a bit after TWTTIN, so Mark would already have been in prison._

 _Also, these chapters are going to be quite short. Usually, they're roughly 2500 words per chapter, but I'm trying out a new snapshot-style writing and as a result, it may be fewer words per chapter with more chapters._

 _Thanks so much to all those who read, reviewed, and alerted/favorited! I would shake all your hands if I could._

 _This isn't a romance. That is all I'm telling you. There isn't romance in this story._

* * *

 _April 27, 1968_ —5 _:36 PM_

Two-Bit drags you along to the bowling alley downtown. You must be a sorry sight. The pity Two-Bit takes on you is almost pathetic; he's only asked you to come along to beer runs and his usual shenanigans a few times, but you guess things are all different now.

You almost say no, but it's a Saturday, it's not too late, you've got nothing to do, and even though the idea of sitting at your desk and scribbling a story down sounds far more appealing, you relent and go. No use worrying those around you even more by your lack of a social life.

What the place lacks in finesse, it makes up for in charm. Two-Bit's eyes flash when he laughs and he talks about a hood he met last time he was here, and you listen but you don't say much. You've never been known for talking.

It doesn't take long for you to separate. He meets up with a girl who ain't Kathy and he's talking and she's giggling and you roll your eyes and laugh when he gets a strike and whoops and hollers.

You sit at the bar behind the lanes when there's someone next to you.

It's the familiar short black hair that you notice first. She's petite, slumping into the ripped vinyl chair to your left.

She looks at you through her thick white round sunglasses and when she asks you to come with her, you only hesitate a second before telling Two-Bit you're heading off.

He nods.

Doesn't even look back.

* * *

 _April 27, 1968_ — _5:52 PM_

Angela Shepard is in the booth in front of you, smelling like pot and strangely enough, English Leather. You both booked it from the bowling alley to the diner next to the Woolworth's. In your line of sight, you see an older Korean War vet eating pancakes, Lou who used to jockey at Slash J with Dallas smoking a cig, and a young mother with her two children ordering food.

The two of you just do this sometimes. In the month Curly's been dead, Angela has transformed. Her hair was a while ago cut in jagged stripes across her head so it's still quite short, no longer cascading down her back. Word on the street is Mark Jennings and his brother Bryon cut it off, though she'll swear until she's blue in the face that she did it herself to make some kind of statement. Those Shepards, always clinging to their last shred of pride. Despite the look of defeat dancing across her face, she's still got that _thing_ —the thing that makes her Angela. And when you look at her like that, it's not hard to remember she sent a guy to hurt you because you wouldn't go with her about six months back.

"Um, how are you?" Even though the two of you meet sometimes, pleasantries aren't your strong suit and you still have trouble gauging how to act around her. Sometimes she's weepy, sometimes she's angry. Sometimes she'll be so emotional that she transcends sad. She gets giddy and happy and wants to go on walks to avoid talking about how she feels. But when she's angry, which is most of the time, she's almost as dangerous as her brothers.

"I'm fan-fucking-tastic, Ponyboy." So, angry it is. But you see how she crumpled completely at the funeral, how she couldn't handle it, and you're glad you can be there at least just to talk to her. You know she spends all her time at the bowling alley these days, playing pinball. After she married one of her brother's gang members, she's lost all her friends and notoriety/reputation for being tough, and her life has been shit. You feel bad for her, you really do. She ain't always been the best to you but she sure as shit don't deserve this.

She slouches into the seat, no trace of the stubborn defiance she always has. "I just...I just miss him, is all. It don't seem to be gettin' much better."

"I miss him too."

"I just—I just...They were real protective of me, you know? And now that Curly's...gone, it's like Tim's followin' with him."

You don't know what to say to this. You never know the right thing to say.

Angel makes a move to flip her hair over her shoulders before she remembers it's all gone. Even after all this time it's like she can't get used to it. She puts her sunglasses back on over her eyes, maybe as an attempt to keep you from seeing her cry. God forbid a Shepard show emotion.

But you get it. It runs a lot deeper than that. She can't show how she feels. She wants to be just like her brothers. She wants to assert her dominance and her cold nature in a world that hasn't done her any favors. What you don't get is why she's only open to you. You play the therapist even though you ain't exactly in a position to do that.

":..And now, it's like I ain't got nobody. Ain't nobody there to protect me."

She doesn't say this to win your sympathy. Angela Shepard would never want sympathy from you. She says it because she's hurt and for the first time, utterly alone, and just wants someone to relate. Or at least just listen.

You humor her. "I didn't know you ever needed protectin'." You smile to let her know you're joking.

"I don't, Ponyboy Curtis. And don't you ever forget that." Then she laughs through her tears. "I never needed anybody. It was just real nice knowin' you had someone out there who had your back."

"You ain't gotta do that."

"Do what?" she asks. Boy, she's quite a looker. Her hair even adds a new form of beauty.

"You ain't gotta act so tough all the time, Angela. It's fine to admit you need help sometimes. Dig?"

 _You get tough like me and you don't get hurt._ Bullshit.

"I am tough. I don't need no help." Like a stubborn child, she sits back and crosses her arms. Great, you tell yourself, you've pissed her off. Yet, she stays where she's at. If she were truly mad, she'd have stormed off, mouthing every cuss word under the sun. "It's...it's funny. Curly would always front like he was oh-so-tough. But back at home, he was pretty groovy. They both were pretty groovy. Real good to me."

"Yeah," you reply, and you pride yourself on the fact that your voice doesn't shake. "Groovy." There's a moment of silence as the waitress appears. Angel orders a chocolate milkshake. You pass on the food. You ain't been the hungriest these days. "How, uh, how is Tim?" you ask when she leaves.

"He's liable to get himself hauled in if he ain't careful. All he does these days is smoke and drink and slash tires. Fuckin' idiot. I caught him bustin' up a guy real good with a pipe the other day. He can't take it. I always thought my brother was made of steel or somethin', but he can't take this."

He can't take it. And suddenly, you remember how Dally couldn't handle things when Johnny died, and it all clicks into place. You realize that maybe Curly was the only person Tim ever loved, in the same desperate and violent way Dallas loved Johnny.

"Sometimes...sometimes I wonder if he'd be the same way if it'd had been me."

* * *

 _April 28th_ — _6:46 PM_

You walk her home. It's only right of you to do so.

You're greeted with her ramshackle place with the sounds of her stepdad Frank and her mom screaming at each other. With a feeling of dread, you wonder if either of them care that their son is dead.

You almost don't feel right leaving her here, but you tell yourself that she's definitely faced worse than this.

The two of you are walking up to the door while you're wondering when the next time this little rendezvous is gonna happen. It's real funny how things change. A few years ago, you didn't even know she existed. A few short months ago, before Curly died and before the Dingo got bombed and before Mark got thrown in the cooler, she tried to get you killed. You had the status as a local hero and your life was just starting to get normal again. It's a damn shame.

Then, she's grabbing your face and she's kissing you. It's purely platonic, but something tells you she probably wouldn't mind if it wasn't. It's not ferocious or hungry, it's innocent and lasts a second. In a move that is extremely un-Angela, she whispers, "Thank you" and runs into her house, narrowly avoiding getting a plate thrown at her head.

You realize just how much this has torn her up. She's not the tigress, the intimidating girl who knows what she wants and gets it. For the first time, you see her for what she is. A scared kid.

A thought hits you. This would be a good idea to write a story about.


	3. Chapter 3

_Hey. Sorry for the long wait on this. David Bowie died. I was sad. It's a short chapter but it's an introductory one. Next time around it'll be longer. I hope you enjoy. Please review. Thank you those who read and reviewed last time._

* * *

 _May 5, 1968—6:12 AM_

You didn't sleep well the entire night, but you eventually managed to fall into a fitful rest. When you wake up, you wish you hadn't. You wish you didn't have to.

The nightmare you had fades fast but it lingers in the back of your mind. You swallow the images of blood and cement. You bury your imminent scream and flop back on your pillow.

Then it dawns on you.

It's officially been a month.

* * *

 _May 5, 1968—6:26 AM_

The comfort of your bed and the pull of sleep doesn't deter your restlessness.

You slowly walk out into the living room, careful not to wake your brothers. When you do, you see Steve's crunched up on the couch, sound asleep. There's a cigarette still stuck behind his ear. Halfheartedly you thank your lucky stars that it's unlit. After all, you've seen enough blood and fire to last a thousand lifetimes. Without thinking, you snatch the stick and wander out on the front porch.

It takes a few seconds of you fumbling around with a lighter before it's lit. You breathe in deep. With a sense of minor dread you realize that it's got that real cool menthol taste (you're more of Reds kind of guy) but nicotine is nicotine and you've been out of cigs for a while.

When you've smoked the Marlboro down to the nub you go inside, bristling at the empty beer cans nestled beside Steve.

Maybe he remembered this happy little anniversary, too. Maybe he got so rip roaring drunk that he blacked out before he could go home. Before he could remember.

You may all mourn in the same way—through girls and smokes and drinks—but there's one salient difference between you and Steve (minus his preference for menthol cigarettes).

You were there. You saw it happen. Like the personified Death himself, you were witness to another life taken from someone close to you. Taken way too soon.

Sickness washes over you in an icy tide (a sensation all-too familiar), but you can't tell if it's from smoking on an empty stomach or from the memory of the night. That night.

Desperate to get rid of the bitter taste of cold and menthol in your mouth, you go to the bathroom and brush your teeth so hard your gums bleed. You spit in the sink and then you see the blood. Just a little bit of crimson that shines so brightly against the white porcelain sink. It's a little bit, but it's enough.

 _Oh, god, oh, god, oh, god—blood so red, up against the snow-covered cement—_

And that—that stupid fucking reason—sets you off. Room spinning, the toothbrush drops to the floor and then so do you.

* * *

 _Blood. Black and red. It holds life together until it's spilled._ There sure is a lot of blood in people.

 _This was the blood that you had seen spilled more times than should be allowed. Whether it be the result of a nasty rumble gone wrong, or the aftermath of a chain beating, or just a stupid fuckin' prison fight, Curly'd had his fair share of bloodshed. But he always got up, he was always resilient enough to even crack a goddamn smile after receiving the beating of his life. This time, he wasn't up. He wasn't the cat with nine lives. He didn't bounce up and whip up a retort so fast that Two-Bit would be proud. He laid there dead and cold and sad and that was it. He died a lot like he lived - like a supernova, at first it was fast and exciting, and then cold and dark and real sad. No one remembers the black holes left behind._

 _That's just how the cookie crumbles. The people aren't gonna remember the Curly Shepard who was so street smart it got spooky, or the one that would walk his sister places around town so she wouldn't get jumped or dogged on for being a girl. They'd know and remember him as the hood who had the mouth of a motorbike and the fight skills to match. Tim's little brother._

 _Maybe that's all he was. You're so idealistic, always trying to see things that aren't there. It's going to end up being your downfall one day, just you wait and see._

* * *

 _May 5th, 1968—6:43 AM_

"Jesus," a disjointed voice swears. A door slowly creaks. "Wakey, wakey..."

It takes some effort for you to reopen your eyes. "Aw, shit." _Shit, shit, shit._

"Are you okay?" Steve Randle asks, more panic in his voice than you would have expected. From up above you, he opens the bathroom door all the way and sees you on the floor.

"Yeah." Embarrassed, you almost decide to just stay sprawled on the linoleum. Maybe you can just melt into the floors. "Yeah, I'm—I'm okay." And you are. You shake the cobwebs from your mind and hoist yourself up using the edge of the tub.

"Christ, did you pass out? You're lucky enough you didn't crack your head on the tile."

Boy, you sure are. "No," you lie, knowing the first thing Steve will do is tell Sodapop. And you don't need that. "I've been real tired. Just decided to rest my eyes on the bathroom floor."

He gives you that look, that _bullshit_ look. "Tired." It's not a question. "So, this ain't some kind of cry for help and you didn't just splat on the bathroom floor?"

"I've just been tired," you reply, repeating yourself, feeling more and more annoyance brewing in the pit of your stomach. You wish he could just leave you alone in here. "But I think you know why."

His face softens but his words still cut hot and sharp. "Yeah, well, I'm liable to tell Soda about this. It's all he's been doin' lately—goin' crazy."

"Well, it's all I've been doin' too," you snap. "And if you keep yellin' you'll wake the both of 'em up." You sigh before you continue. "I don't mean to stress 'em out. There ain't nothin' wrong with me. I wish they would see that."

"They're just _worryin',_ you little shit. We all are startin' to. Glory, Ponyboy, don't you see that?"

A whole swirl of emotions in just a few seconds. First you feel anger, then annoyance, and then just an overwhelming sadness mixed with grief. There's something tired behind Steve's eyes.

"You ain't been the same lately. Now, I don't give two shits about it, but your brothers do. Wake up and smell the roses, kid. This has been hard for everyone."

 _You weren't there,_ you want to scream. _You didn't hear him call your name, beg for his ma, his brother. You didn't feel him cling onto you as you tried to rush him out of there. Out of that hell of a place._

But you don't. Steve's never been a friend to vent to, and now just don't seem like the right time. It never seems like the right time. The images are in your head and talkin' about them isn't gonna make them go away. Instead, you say all he wants to hear.

"You're right. Steve, golly, I'm—"

He raises his hand slowly. "It's...it's okay, kid." The hard edge in his voice disappears. "Just, for your sake, for _Soda's_ sake, you gotta stop this. Whatever it is."

In spite of yourself, you crack a wry smile. Your head still spins a little. "Well, it won't be easy."

"Do it. Now, get out. I gotta take a piss."

You do.


	4. Chapter 4

_Well, hello, friends! Those of you who saw my last little update on the state of my existence know why I took so long with this. But I think it's safe to say that I am back and motivated again. Thank you all so much for your wonderful words of support. Special thanks to Arsosah whose kindness and talent inspired me to keep going with this. I hope you guys enjoy despite some minor errors as I am rather rusty and out of practice when it comes to writing and proofreading._

 _By the way, I'm not entirely sure why my story was back on the front page. I'm sorry to disappoint that it was not a new update yesterday. But here is one right now! Enjoy._

* * *

 _May 6th, 1968—7:14 PM_

Another day rolls by amidst existential angst and the rustling of papers. You would think that the passing of time would be able to heal all wounds, but if anything, it's just another grandiose showcase of everything missed _—_ the fact that he's not going to be here for your next birthday, Christ, _his_ next birthday. Christmas. Halloween. Fuck. Any holiday, or any day in general. It makes you all too aware of how much time you're missing out with him.

And, okay. You weren't always two peas in a pod. In fact, he was a pain in your ass, a hoodlum, someone you only hung out with when the boredom you felt couldn't be resolved by endless writings filling notebooks. But you'll be damned if the idea of yet another teenager near you shedding blood for no goddamned reason doesn't make your insides twist and your head feel like it's going to burst.

Darry's working late tonight. He left today with a message to study, study, study. Exams are fast approaching, and while throwing yourself into researching and studying for hours seems like a nice respite from the dread clouding your mind, you lie back instead and contemplate.

A few minutes ago, Steve's hushed voice was carried into your room from the kitchen, intermingling with Sodapop's. Steve is quiet for a reason, obviously not wanting you to be able to hear what he has to say. Of course, you're the baby, your pristine little ears never get respected or graced with any relevant information.

Bits and pieces are overheard and you find yourself straining against your bedroom door, all chipped paint and thin, warped wood.

"...that brother of yours." Whispered chunks. But it's enough to incite you to listen even more carefully.

"...you mean...? I..."

"...found him passed out on the floor this morning. The kid ate shit, man."

 _"What?"_ Soda's voice goes up an octave. There's a second of silence and then there is the sound of Steve breathing out a _Shh..._ noise. Quieter this time, he repeats, "What?"

Almost sick, you move your ear away from the door and slump against it. Of course Steve wouldn't keep quiet. No one ever does. _"I'm liable to tell Soda about this,"_ rings through your head. Because he did, and you didn't think to even call it as a bluff. And now, the humble and quiet silences between you and your brother and the sneaked glances he gives you from time to time will dissolve into something even worse. Sodapop will intervene, want to know _more_ when you don't even know why you're like this at all.

You passed out because you don't eat, you don't eat because all food tastes like a mix of blood in your mouth and bologna. It's all imaginary, the things you're tasting. But they're there and they're thick and intrusive and you feel bile in your throat just _thinking_ about eating. Besides from the bites of food you manage to appease your brothers, there isn't much in your bloodstream except nicotine. Cold menthol. Track season is at its end, so there is no need to retain strength. The girls you go with all remark on how thin you've gotten, but that doesn't stop you from getting with them. That doesn't stop you from anything.

In your room, which is a mess of strewn pieces of loose leaf paper and textbooks, you move away from the door because you know that soon enough, Sodapop is going to come barging in, demanding an explanation that you don't know how to give.

Not a barge, but a soft knock. Unsure.

"Come in," you manage.

"Hey."

"Hey."

"Ponyboy..."

You don't look at him. Instead, your focus on a tiny crack in the ceiling that gradually grows as the house faces more wear and tear.

Soda says, "My god, are you okay?"

And you don't say nothing to acknowledge that. You just stare, and then gradually you nod. It's not the most convincing of responses. But you figure, _Hey, I didn't crack my skull against the bathtub or impale myself on the toilet, so I'm dandy._ You don't feel like a kid whose hand was caught in the cookie jar—you feel worse, like a criminal getting caught stealing something. Deer in the headlights.

He continues anyway, and his eyes seem dull as he does it. "I-I know you and I haven't..."

"It's okay," you blurt, though you don't know why. Perhaps to diffuse a situation before it even happens. But he sees through you like a transparent piece of glass.

"It ain't! It's the opposite of okay, Ponyboy. You of all people don't gotta reassure me..."

Where the hell is he going with this? "I, uh, I don't know what you want me to say, Sodapop..."

"Aw, hell, Pony. I was never the writer like you. I just...I'm so used to being the one to be able to help you. When you were younger, it was so easy. I read you like the back of my hand, and I was always able to be there for you. Now, I'm—you're gettin' older and you're goin' through so much and I'm not able to help you. I've been distant 'cause you won't _talk_ to me." At this, he pauses. You wonder briefly if he's expecting you to say something back before he pushes through. "I just want to help you, is all. Okay? 'Cause hearin' you fainted from Steve of all people just makes me feel sick."

"I'm sorry," you reply, because even though you've been a self-absorbed mess since Curly died, somehow a mix of being dissociative and overwhelmed with emotion, upsetting Soda never has and never will be something you want to achieve. "I'm just..."

"You're too young to have to deal with this sort of thing all over again. Curly was my friend too but you—you were the closest, and my God, you were there..." He breathes deep. "Promise me you'll make an effort to talk to me. That's all I want. And I know you ain't been eatin' like you should neither."

"You caught me," you sigh, tired of fighting it. "It all tastes like bologna."

He looks at you, directly in the eyes, and you can't help but notice it's that same look Darry gave you the other night, when you crept home from Buck's. It's that look that desperately implores, _Please be okay, because I don't think I could handle it if you weren't._

You don't know how to tell him that you might not be.

* * *

May 7th, 1968—6:47 AM

Brushing your teeth, you spit in the sink and briefly remember what triggered you to faceplant on the bathroom floor the first time. Thankfully, this attempt at brushing your teeth leaves you not woozy, but steady and still ready to take on the day.

In the hallway you bump into Soda, who's taking an opening shift this morning, and you face him with false courage.

Flashing him your brightest smile, you say, "Hey, Sodapop."

"Hey," he says, with an equally bright smile. It's too hopeful for his own good, and it leaves a steadily increasing pit of guilt in your stomach. It's that look in his eyes again.

He left your room last night, and in that time you had a revelation. No more moping—you are going to fake it until you make it. Even if that involves swallowing cereal that sits like a giant grey lump in your already guilt-laden stomach. You are going to be so happy and upbeat to the point that they would not recognize this new beam of sunshine. It would alleviate Soda and Darry's stress, and might even get you back on the right track.

Another smile is flashed in his directed and then you go for it. "Listen. You, uh...you ain't gonna tell Darry about me faintin', are you?"

He bites his lip. There's a flash in his eyes which tells you that he thinks it'd probably be for the best if he did. "I don't know, Pony...how do we even know you're alright?"

With this admission, you almost want to cry. Even your brother, your closest confidante knows how fucked up you are. You wish you could go back to the days where he blindly trusted you, though you know it's not anyone's fault but your own. "I know. And I'm sorry." And if it isn't sad that this is the most genuine thing you've said in a while. "I just don't want Darry worryin', dig? He's always carryin' the weight of the world on his shoulders anyhow."

"Ain't that the truth." He cracks a grin, and then it dissipates. "If I don't tell Darry, you gotta promise me—promise me, Ponyboy, that you'll tell me when you ain't feelin' right. We can't keep this up." His tone and demeanor seem to fit alongside his words, but in his eyes you can tell he's debating on whether or not this is the right thing to do.

"Deal." Your answer seems to satisfy him, and his shoulders loosen up just the slightest.

With that, tensions are melting. There's a lot more to uncover, a lot more grievances to work through, but this lapse in the usual dynamic allows for more easy breathing, even if it's just for a little bit.

"Come on, kid. I'll take you to school."

There's only one thing, though. You didn't say _I promise._

* * *

May 7th, 1968—11:30 AM

School is a diversion. It has always served this purpose, excluding the times when the hallways were littered with Socs, giving barely-concealed death glares and threats of another war among social classes.

It doesn't allow for you dwell on the fact that you're lying to your brother, to your friends, to yourself. You're not okay. Curly's six feet under, and you're not okay. Greasers should be tougher than this, should move on faster than this. But you reckon you've never really been quite like the rest of them anyway, so why does it matter now?

Moving to your locker, you mindlessly apply your combination and groan in frustration over the fact that your locker is sticking. You grab your books for your English Lit class and as you do so, you notice a thin strip of paper that falls to the ground at your worn shoe-clad feet.

On the strip of paper is rather feminine handwriting, delicate cursive you don't immediately recognize.

 _Meet me at the sematary after school or else your dead to me._

The nice scrawl might have been the first thing you noticed, but upon reading the note you can't help but make an internal remark about the lack of good spelling and grammar as well. With an eyeroll, you know who this is from. There's only one person who would have this handwriting with thiese spelling capabilities. You wonder how she managed to get into your locker in the first place.

It's Angela. And she's going to make you visit Curly, something that has not been done since his funeral. It's sad, but you find yourself having this debate, a force warring within you. _Do I go?_ You haven't even visited Johnny or your parents in months. It's not like it's your idea of a party.

You scoop the rest of your books and make your way to class before the bell rings. You wish you could just get out now. As Lady Macbeth said, screw your courage to this sticking place. Breathing deeply, you make up your mind.


	5. Chapter 5

This is the very definition of a filler chapter. There's essentially no plot here at all, but it does introduce a few directions that this is going in. Yes, I surprisingly haven't given up. Yes, it's rather dark as well, as Ponyboy's struggles with how he views life are obviously some neglected form of mental illness. Unfortunately, back in the 60s, help was not often offered the same way it is today. I realize that Pony is going to be a bit OOC; he's older, life has taken a bit of a toll on him. Hope seems lost right now but I promise it'll get better for everyone eventually. :-)

Please review, even though I don't deserve any form of encouragement. Pardon typos, as it is late and I'm tired as heck. Hope you enjoy, because I'm still not sure how I feel about this at all.

* * *

 _May 7th, 1968_ — _3:13 PM_

You're in an exceptionally pissed off mood when you get to the cemetery.

The leaves, dried brown and real shriveled up, crunch mercilessly beneath your shoes. The air is dark yet crisp, hot yet not humid, and you try to breathe easily but can't. In your right hand, a cigarette burns close to the filter. In your left, Angela's note is crumpled between your fingers. Your head aches, stomach churning in anxiety and nausea. God, you're so tired. Exhaustion seeps into your bones.

In the distance, you see her, short black hair reflecting in the dim light, looking almost like an oil spill in its darkness. She's crouched in front of a grubby headstone—Curly's, if you had to guess, because it sure as shit wouldn't make a lick of sense if it was someone else's—and her eyes are dry, even though it sort of looks like she could start crying at any second.

You're still not used to it, after all this time has passed, that she's like a fucking leaking faucet, crying at the drop of a hat. It seems like an alternate universe, when you try to fit this Angela onto the one you used to know. When her eyes were once like a wild animal's in the fact that they were rife with passion and vivacity.

You drop the cigarette and smash it under your foot. Though, upon further thought, you can't help but realize that it's mighty insensitive to leave a butt on someone's grave. After all, you weren't raised in a barn, and Darry'd have your hide if he saw you leave it there. You reach down and pick it up, opting to tuck it behind your ear instead.

"Why'd you do that?" Angela asks.

You idly squat down next to her, knees popping. Previous actions forgotten, you ask, "Do what?"

"Pick it back up."

"Dunno. Why?"

"I just figure it's real funny, is all," she says, looking down at the barren headstone. Her hair falls in her eyes and she doesn't move it out of the way. That drives you nuts; how can she see?

"Well," you snort, "I don't really see why."

"You're just a real funny kid, Ponyboy," she says, and it's real fond and all. "I reckon not a single other candyass from this neighborhood woulda had that kind of consideration."

"Hm." And that's all you say, rubbing your eyes, because you've never been known for talking.

"I know you like playin' tough and blendin' in and all, but newsflash, it ain't workin' for you. You're like a kicked puppy. A big softy."

No, you're not, and you know she doesn't mean anything by it other than harmless teasing, but it's the fact that this was a common description of Johnny Cade is what doesn't sit well in your stomach. "Yeah." You wish she wouldn't psychoanalyze you. It's not a conversation you're wanting to have.

It kinda reminds you of when Two-Bit told you you'd never become hard, a full-on hoodlum, when he saw you picking up the broken glass at the DX. You can't tell if you feel happy or sad at the memory. Nostalgia can be convoluted.

The cluster of pain in your temples flares, and you rub them, trying to get the stars in your vision to clear. Damn it, you know you should eat, but for the love of god, that's another idea that sits uncomfortably in your stomach in the place of food.

Angela's looking at you, and not like how other people do, when they look away and pretend they weren't staring as soon as you look at them. You look up at her and she doesn't look away, and that's something that separates her from other people. In this world where everyone will let you down, she knows she can always trust herself. You wish you had that luxury. "Are you blitzed or somethin'?" She finally moves the ink-black hair from her eyes as she questions you.

You're not. "No."

"Well, what is it? Long night of booze and surfin' and turfin' in one of Buck's rooms? Goin' nuts with any girl who'll—"

"No," you snap. "And, Jesus Christ, what are you, my mother?" At the look of shock on her face, you back up. Remorse instantly washes over you in a freezing tide. "Sorry." It's said in a whisper, and your hands find their way to your face. "I didn't mean to yell at you."

"It's fine." She's whispering, too, and that's how you know you've fucked up. "It's...fine."

"I'm just tired."

"So am I. Real tired."

"Uh huh."

And this is the part you hate, where you're forced to forge conversation as a means to fill the gaps of silence. So, you opt for sitting in silence instead. You look at Angela, and how she's looking down at Curly's grave, and you think that she might be getting better with getting used to things. For the first time, she's not looking down with an overbearing sense of disbelief, but instead she's comfortable, almost like they're casually sitting there, waiting for Curly to arrive.

You wish you were like that. You've never had that kind of resilience. But she's nothing if not resilient.

"You okay, Pony?"

"Peachy," you reply, attempting to make it as genuine as possible, feeling like shit mostly because _she_ 's the one who should be moping, should be crying and screaming in dismay, not you, because he wasn't _your_ brother. He was hers, and you don't think you could ever be as strong as her if Darry or Soda were in switched positions with Curly. You don't think there would even be anything left of you at all. But here she is, whole, coping, comforting. It's fucking inspiring. "I'm serious," you amend. "What about you? How are you doin'?"

"I'm okay." She breathes in through her mouth, exhaling her through her nose. "I ran into Bryon today. Said he was real sorry. I told him I didn't need his fuckin' pity."

"I'm sure he was just tryin' to be nice."

"Aw, what do you care?" she says with a roll of her eyes. "I mean, he don't care for you none."

This is true. He's never been a fan. You sit quietly for a bit, thumbing the pack of smokes in your pocket. Angela swipes on as well, sticking it between her index and middle fingers. She leans over for a light before she continues on. "I don't think you ever really get used to this" - she swipes her hand around a circular motion, directed at the situation - "but it gets easier to deal with. I like to think that's happenin' to me. He wouldn't want me to be a sissy."

When you still don't say anything, she keeps going. "I don't think it's the same story for Tim, but, well, it is what it is."

That's never been a mindset she's had. If something isn't her way, she'll do what she has to do to get it. She'll go to heaven and fight God if it meant she gets what she wants. But now, it just ain't the same.

"Jesus," she says crassly, and snorts. "We sound like a bunch of fuckin' pathetic mopes. Curly's upstairs, laughin' his ass off at us."

"Maybe so," you reply, and she smiles. You drag on your cigarette for a second, inhaling for as long as humanly possible. Nicotine quells the shake in your hands. "Say, why did you tell me to come out here today?"

She seems to sit and contemplate for a second before responding. "Just wanted to go. Tim hasn't come out yet. I don't think he'd be able to...ya know..."

"Why the note? You couldn't have just told me in the hallway?"

And then she actually laughs. "Yeah, it's real fuckin' dramatic." She sighs. "I dunno, man. I wanted to do it that way. It makes it seem a little...special. I mean, it's my fuckin' brother here. I just...I don't know, it's real fuckin' stupid."

"Maybe so," you say again, and this time, you're both cracking up. Your smile is crooked, you can feel it. And it feels real good to actually smile and laugh again, even if deep down, something makes you uncomfortable about palling around Angela Shepard. Usually, she's bad news (not that you've been especially _good_ news lately), though as of late she hasn't had the time to get up to her usual antics.

There's also the fact that she's harboring a crush against you.

In the aftermath of tragic events, it's not hard to believe and understand that she is just latching onto you because you're the last connection to something she's lost. In addition to that, you're one of the few people who haven't left her side over the years (though that's partially her own fault). She's a little sister, you're mutual therapists to each other. And while you want to be nice, you don't want things to get out of control.

This setting is too damn dark, even for you. Feeling that you both might have a bit more fun somewhere else, you ask, "Hey, Angela, you wanna go to the movies or somethin'?" Dear God, you're not helping your case. You can only hope that your meaning isn't being misconstrued.

She stands up, offering you a hand up as well. "Movies ain't my thing. I should probably go, though. I'll see you 'round, Ponyboy." And then she walks the other direction, turning back around once to wave. And you wave back.

Partially relieved and partially disappointed, you wipe your hands on your jeans and get going.

* * *

 _May 7th, 1968 - 7:00 PM_

You're in a significantly better mood by the time you get home. Your headache has dissipated with the help of an Aspirin or six, and as you sit down next Sodapop at the table, you feel a bit at ease to be at home, with your family. While the rest of the guys are great, family even, sometimes fronts are put up and emotions are hidden around them. Around your brothers, you can relax a bit more.

"You hear about Duff Martin?"

"What about him?" you reply, hopefully not too excitedly as you force down lasagna. It's a courtesy. Darry put some time and effort into the food and at this point, it would just be rude to pass up. You've been trying to hold true to your promise to Soda; ease everyone's tension a bit by trying to move past your problems. Darry's sat across from you at the table, watching, and Sodapop seems as carefree as ever.

Duff's someone Soda's known for about a year or so. He sits around at the DX and befriends just about everyone that walks in. He's greasy, so he's reliable in a fight and trustworthy, but you don't think Soda truly likes the guy. The one time you met him, he was talking up a storm about the women he's managed to do it with, which you and Soda could not have given a damn less about.

"He got a new car not too long ago. Showed up to the DX, braggin' about it and all that, just like he always does. He pulls up in a goddamn 1967 Maserati Quattroporte."

"Bullshit," you say. Darry looks at you briefly but doesn't say anything, almost like he has to remind himself that his brothers are grown.

Regardless, Duff doesn't have that type of money. No one who goes to the DX to goof off has that type of money.

"No shit! I ask him how he got it, right? And it's all souped up and Socy and it's way too pricey for a greasy fellow like him. Well, he's talkin' to us both about how he paid for it with his own cash and all that, when all of a sudden we see these sirens and red and blue lights are flashin'. You know I get antsy when the fuzz shows up, so I'm sittin' there, minding my own business as Steve and me do our jobs, when they start handcuffin' Duff."

Darry listens but he doesn't say anything. He's still watching you, watching Soda, and it's a bit unnerving how it's almost like he's taking stock of his brothers and his bore into you both. He's too tense, too intense. It can't be healthy.

You start laughing, honestly, ernestly, which surprises everyone at the table and motivates your brother even more. One thing about Sodapop is that he's never going to be able to sit still, and when you motivate him, that's when it gets even worse. And hearing your laugh was exactly what he needed.

"The way he got that car was with a five finger discount! Hoo-boy, I couldn't believe it. I knew he was a thick bastard but I never would have seen that one comin'."

You chuckle again at the way he whoops and hollers. Soda's always been able to make you smile, and when you're around him, it feels a little bit less like you're drowning.

Half a plate of lasagna is done with, the taste of bologna viscous on your tongue.

"How was school today, Pony?" your oldest brother asks, casually digging into his pasta. Darry and Soda still eat like they can't get enough.

"Real good. We're reading _Oedipus_ in English. He, uh, he gets married to his mom and has a bunch of kids with her. Sophocles is a good writer but it's a real weird story." It's not a lie. You are reading the works of Sophocles in your English class, but when you speak, the words feel fake on your tongue. Maybe you're so used to lying that telling the truth feels different.

Soda sits back and chews his food as he digests this. Darry then asks, "You have any homework to do?"

"English," you reply, welcoming the sense of normalcy that's currently taking place.

"Make sure it's done before you go to bed tonight."

"Will do, Dar."

Soda smiles. "You know he'll be bringin' home straight A's again for the semester."

Darry smiles. "Of course."

"Thanks, guys," you say, blushing a bit, feeling like you could cry because it's all so normal. No interrogations, no distance, no shifty looks of worry.

You smile.

It still feels fake.


	6. Chapter 6

_Hello! I'm pulling a Sherlock and springing up years (well, months) after everyone thought I was dead. Well, I just started college and I'm working a full-time job, and strangely enough, this type of schedule has motivated me to get on with this. I'm not sure how I feel about it. Like, at all._

 _ **Warnings:** lots of angst (like holy shit), swearing, almost-smut (which I can't write at all, omg), and talks of weight, hunger, food, and unhealthy behaviors because our beloved Pony is not much of an eater in this story. _

_Thank you so much for reading and please review! I hope you enjoy!_

* * *

 _May 18th, 1968—12:01 AM_

When you're with a new girl, it's especially easy to forget any of your problems.

This new one, she's real sweet. You're in Buck's when you see her. She's beautiful, a little chubby, with a bit of skin poking out of the sides of her skirt. She says maybe two words to you before you're headed upstairs.

She introduces herself as Betty. You say nothing back, opting to kiss her gently instead.

She's even more beautiful when you're rolling in the sheets together.

Buck's place has never been the cleanest, but that doesn't matter when there's a willing participant underneath you. She tells you that she's not usually like this. She's a modest girl. Don't tell a soul. You reassure her, promise her, that it's fine. That you won't.

It _is_ fine. You never say anything. _You're_ the one with the growing reputation here, not her. Her secret is safe with you.

Betty lightly pokes you in the ribs, tells you you're too skinny. You _are_ hungry. She says that next time, she can make you a nice dinner, something to fatten you up. She loves to cook. You don't know how to tell her there won't be a next time.

You're in the middle of it all when she seems to have a sudden revelation. She asks you if you're Ponyboy Curtis. When you answer, she giggles, kisses you passionately, then tells you that you're a town hero.

It doesn't sit right.

* * *

 _Curly's hair is especially greasy tonight and it reflects in the artificial lights of this dim bar. He's wearing his cocky, crooked grin and he looks up at you with a wink. You give a nod and smile even though you're extremely out of your element. There was supposed to be a PBS special on Ernest Hemingway tonight that you wish you were at home watching instead. Curly's nothing if not persuasive._

 _He's been swindling people all night at the pool table, and since he's been winning so much, every part_ _of you wishes he'd knock it off, leave well enough alone. You watch as he continues with a certain agility to hustle people. People who get progressively angrier as the night unfolds and the alcoholic drinks get handed out._

 _You're a kid. And even if you weren't, you still wouldn't feel right being here. This place, this seedy atmosphere, is not safe. You shouldn't be here. For fuck's sake, you have a copy of_ Jane Eyre _in your pocket._

 _Curly smiles as he wins again. A man in black, the loser, stands back, balling his hands into fists before putting them in his pockets. He thumbs something. He looks at Curly._

 _Looks at you._

* * *

 _May 18th, 1968—8:20 PM_

It's almost sunset. The heat lingers and makes your clothes stick to you, but it feels better as the sun lowers. Sunsets, well, they never had the same effect on you as sunrises did. Sunrises represent a new day, a new start. Everything turns light again. Pure. The sunset just isn't the same, but you can still admire its aesthetic beauty. You're in the lot, sitting on a curb in front of a chain-link fence. You don't come here too much anymore, but it's nights like this where you like the contemplation.

"You know, Pony, I think you oughta slow it down. Just a little."

"What do you mean?" you ask with a smile, because you really don't know. For once, you're not pretending.

"I mean, you've got yourself a big name now. With the ladies and all that. It's, uh, disconcerting." Steve sidles up beside you and plops down on the curb as he says this. There's a menthol between his teeth and a leer in his eye.

"Why?" Two-Bit asks as he sits on your opposite side, beer and cigarette in hand. "You jealous that you're eternally tied down to Evie?"

"I ain't tied down to shit." He ashes his cigarette.

You say, "I gotta say, I'm impressed you could use a big word like "disconcerting". You been studyin' the dictionary again?"

"Shut it, smartass," Steve says, but he's smiling. Like he's barely able to conceal the humor in his eyes behind the agitation. Two-Bit hollers for some time before Steve continues. "I'm serious, though. It ain't just around your school. I hear girls talkin' all around town. 'Specially at the DX."

"Oh, Jesus. When Soda's there?"

"I don't figure he's heard any of it yet, but I _do_ figure if they keep droppin' your name while in there, I wouldn't be too surprised."

 _Well, that's embarrassing_ , you think. You put your head in your hands for a second, wondering how your life managed to get to this point. Two-Bit seems to know exactly what you're thinking because he wraps his arm around your shoulder and says, "Aw, Steve. Leave the kid alone, man. He's a kid. And it ain't always bad to have a ladies' man reputation. We both know damned well we've all had one."

"Yeah, but we're _us_ , and he's _him_." You don't have time to think on this before he goes on. "Oh, and coppin' a feel on Corinne Davidson while you were supposed to be on a date with Kathy don't make you a ladies' man. It makes you an asshole," Steve fires off.

"Yeah," he replies, and he has the decency to look sheepish, "I'm not the proudest about that one."

Steve turns back to you. "As I was sayin', though, whatever this little bender thing is, you should knock it off."

You're about to defend yourself when Two-Bit does it for you. "He's just makin' up for lost time, Stevie. I mean, just a couple years ago he wasn't even interested in girls. I suppose we should be congratulatin' the man instead of givin' him this interrogation."

"Yup, but...there's somethin' to be said about takin' caution. 'Cause first it's all fun and games, then next thing ya know, she's wantin' marriage and there's a little ankle-biter tied to her hip." He looks at you. "You've never been one to use your damn head. I ain't even gonna get into the topic of venereal diseases. Bet you wouldn't like explainin' that to Darry, would ya? He'd whack you silly."

"I didn't realize I'd be gettin' the birds and the bees talk today. You're a little late, but I 'ppreciate the effort."

Two-Bit chuckles at that and runs a hand through his hair. There's a bit of pain in your stomach. Maybe you should have choked down more food earlier.

Steve says, and he looks you in the eyes, "I've grown up in the last year or so, and what I've learned is that all the hookin' up, sleepin' around, flyin' through girls...well, it doesn't provide a substitute for anything you feel you might need. It might be fun, and feel good in the moment, but it won't change anything in your life."

"Buzz officially killed, man," Two-Bit says, and then belches. "When did we become such grumpy old men? Steve, when did you become such a fuckin' straight-laced super Soc?" But you're not listening to him ramble anymore. Steve's words resonate, echo in your head like a record that keeps skipping. You've always underestimated Soda's best friend, but every once in a while there is a moment where Steve drops bombs of wisdom on everyone. You guess that right now is that time.

Because he's right. Being with a girl, it's fun and it makes your mind feel a little less confused, stuffy.

Steve smacks Two-Bit upside the head. Two-Bit retaliates by dropping his beer bottle and tackling Steve. It all is so inexplicably normal. Why can't you just be... _right_?

Whenever you leave Buck's, you leave accompanied by the dread over the fact that the girl, whoever she is, will never be able to solve your problems. At the end of the night, you're still you, and you have to live with that.

* * *

 _June 4th, 1968—3:57 AM_

You have a nightmare that leaves you jolting, screaming, and crying.

It's been a minute since you've actually thought of Curly at all, and that thought makes you feel even worse.

This time, it was so real. It was so indescribably authentic feeling. Suddenly you're thwarted back and you wish you had some form of amnesia. Anything to forget this.

You're hungry. You reminisce on the times when you used to eat like a horse. Darry and Soda still do, so the contrast between your diets is noticeable, but has yet to be remarked on. You're living in foreboding for that conversation.

You've still been seeing Angela. You've kissed a couple times but it means nothing. Well, at least to you. It's because it's fun and mindless, and as Two-Bit once said, why not?

The last inkling of memory from the dream fades and you remember now where you really are. You sit up in bed, catching your breath, eyeing your notepad. There's something calling you to write this story down.

Well, not yet. Eventually.

"What the fuck is going on with me?" you wonder vaguely, out loud. Your voice is barely a whisper, and you're waiting for the day that your mind isn't plagued with guilt, the memory of warm blood seeping through your fingers.

Your stomach rumbles, but that fact is distant in your mind. The coppery tang of metal fills your mouth even at the thought of food at this point. You're deteriorating, physically and mentally, and already you're planning the trek to Buck's for something late night. To help you forget.

Soda rushes in. He hugs you, rubs your back, but he doesn't ask questions. You don't want him to touch you. You want to melt into the sheets or to get out of there and never come back. You have no idea what you want.

You and Sodapop agreed that if you started acting better, he would back off.

In reality, you haven't been any better. It's easy to fake things when everyone's so obsessed with the idea of you being better. Wishful thinking can lead to easy manipulation. And that's just what you are, isn't it? A manipulator.

Regardless of who, or what you are, or what you're guilty of, you're starting to question the arrangement.

* * *

 _June 15th, 1968—6:13 PM_

Currently, you're on the couch, sandwiched between Soda and Darry despite the lingering, sticky heat. You're all watching _Bonanza_. Well, at least, you're trying to feign some sense of normalcy. Despite this, the air hangs heavy, like something is about to happen. You, Darry, Sodapop. You can all feel it. The house is never this still. You're never in this close of proximity without some form of roughhousing. Steve and Two-Bit never refrain from busting down the door unless there's a reason.

"You never talk about it, Pony." Darry's the one to crack first. Typical. Due to Soda's non-confrontational nature as of late, it was only to be expected that Darry would be the driving force behind whatever this makeshift intervention is going to be.

"It?" you reply.

"You know what I'm talking about," Darry finally says after a moment. Sodapop already leans back a bit, his eyes wide and expecting. Aren't you all on edge these days?

Oh, god, you're so dizzy.

"'Course I do," you shoot back. "It ain't like anything else can be discussed 'round here."

Darry backpedals. He squeezes his eyes shut tight. Tries not to resort to anger. You can tell: he always seems to have to do this when it comes to you. "All I'm saying," he breathes, "is that...well, maybe we haven't done the best with tryin' to discuss things. I reckon it's a hell of a lot easier to just avoid all of it. But, Ponyboy, you still ain't, well...you still ain't all...right."

"I _am_ alright," you say firmly. You seriously thought your fake-it-til-you-make-it strategy was working out. You started running again, forcing more smiles, stopped locking yourself in your room so often, scribbling half-formed stories into your notebooks. "Why am I gettin' the third degree?"

It's Soda who says something next. "Me and Darry have been talkin', and we think...well...maybe...maybe you should go see someone, Pony."

"Well, I don't know why, 'cause I ain't crazy," you shoot back, suddenly feeling too cramped to be sitting on the couch any longer. The sofa dips when you stand up. Your brothers turn up worried eyes. "I'm a lot of things, but crazy? Ain't one of 'em. And maybe next time instead of talkin' behind my back, you could talk to _me_ about it."

Darry and Soda share a look. Soda, handsomeness and pride, has a look on his face that you never want to see ever again. And it's the knowing that you put it there that makes you sick. Regardless, you continue. "I'm goin' through a rough time right now. It'll go away. That's all. I thought you'd understand that."

Soda's in a tough position now. Always the reconciliation, never the instigator. But now he has to choose a side. "You don't think we've tried talkin' to you? We can't even get two words out of ya without you changin' the subject." He looks at you directly now. "We tried bein' distant. We tried not pushin' you too hard. We tried lettin' you come to us first. Now this is us tryin' to get through to you." You can't do anything because you're entranced and you feel your throat quickly closing up. Oh, no. "We love you. We're worried."

"You don't _eat_ ," Darry desperately implores. "You don't do anything. You never talk to any of us anymore unless we talk to you first. It never used to be like that." It's kind of sad, how obvious it is that he has no idea what he's doing. He's so used to just being in control. "All you do is sit in your room and sneak off doing god knows what with Angela Shepard of all people. I don't think she's a good influence on you, Ponyboy. Being around her, around that, can affect you. You don't need to be spending so much time with her. I know, maybe you feel some sort of guilt, or responsibility, or something, but, honey, you don't have to—"

"I'm okay," you interrupt him, feeling angry now because he has no idea how you feel. You even put on a smile for the occasion even though part of you feels tears springing to your eyes. "I'm being truthful with you." You're not. "And I don't dig why you're so worried. What I do is my business, and so is how I deal with things. And I _do_ eat," you add as an afterthought.

Your eyes burn a bit because, _oh, god_ , do you want to tell them everything that's been weighing you down. How you weren't strong enough. How you weren't fast enough to protect Curly and he paid the ultimate price for it.

But you can't. Johnny and Dally already weigh heavy on everyone's minds, and so does your involvement in all of it. You can't handle this feeling of responsibility you have, how weak you are. They can't know. They'll never know. They know you were there the night he was murdered, but they don't know that you saw it all, that you felt it, and yet were unable to stop it. Angela knows you were there. She'll never know you were responsible for the rest.

Darry stands up next to you, while Soda remains seated, looking up and taking everything in. He doesn't know what to say. He sits there and listens but doesn't look like he'll interrupt.

Your dizziness comes back in a wave. You're expecting Darry to explode. So is Soda, just attempting in vain to not be collateral damage.

Darry doesn't explode. Instead, he says in a wavering voice, "How much do you weigh now, huh?"

"What?"

"How much? You're 6'1". I'm 6'4. Soda's 6'. I just wanna know how much you weigh. Soda, how much do you weigh?"

"Um, 165 pounds," Soda volunteers.

"Okay, seems normal," continues your oldest brother. "I'm 215 pounds in muscle mass. Both of these weights are normal. Healthy, even. What about you, Pony? You a healthy weight?"

You're quiet with your reply. You know where he's going with this and it scares you a little bit. "I don't know." You haven't weighed yourself in forever. That would involve acknowledging that there's a problem to be dealt with. Frankly, you can't handle the idea of confrontation.

"Well," Darry says, and his voice seems too manically cheerful for you to breathe easily. He walks down the hallway for a second before continuing. The atmosphere is scary and quiet, tense. In his hands he's carrying something heavy, big. He sets it on the ground. "Lucky for you, I got a scale right here. Step on. I mean, if you're eatin' like you should, you shouldn't have a thing to worry about, right?"

Soda's frozen. You've never seen him so still. Darry goes on. "I mean, surely, any one who eats right doesn't pass out on the bathroom floor, right?"

Instantly, the feeling of betrayal sits thick in your stomach. You round onto Soda, who sits there looking petrified. He expects your rage. "You told him?"

"Pony, come on," he says, trying to get through to you. "Did you really think I wouldn't?"

"Well, I thought I could trust you."

"You _can_. I told him 'cause I was worried. He needed to know." You know he's right. It's just the principle of the matter. Darry looks on with steel eyes, urging you to get on the scale.

"And since we're lettin' all the secrets out now," Darry says. "Go. Get on."

"Darry..." you say, and you curse yourself because the tears finally fall.

"What?" he replies, almost unfeelingly. It scares you. "Step on."

Your resolve really starts to crack now. "I-I can't help it that everything tastes like bologna. Bologna and metal." And then it's all downhill from there.

 _Bonanza_ still plays in the background, long forgotten about. "I'm hungry," you say, flapping like a fish out of water while they both just watch you. Soda stands up, but still keeps his distance from you. He looks at you like you're a fragile piece of glass. "I'm always hungry, but I can't—I can't—"

"You know you can talk to us," Soda says, guiding you onto the couch again. You must look like you're about to pass out. You feel like it. He sits down next to you and you feel the cushions shift under his weight. "You know that, right?"

"Yes," is said numbly. Your throat still feels tight enough to choke you.

"I didn't mean to scare you, Pony." Darry leans down in front of you, bending down (which can't be very good for his knees) and taking your hands in his. "I just—I wanna get it through your head that this—" he gestures around your thin frame, "—ain't normal behavior. It's okay to need help sometimes. I mean, hell, a lot of it is our faults, too. It should never have gotten this far. We weren't there for you 'cause, well, I reckon we were scared. There's no wrong or right way to go about this all. It's hard. It's...it's real hard seein' the people you love hurtin'. We just wanna help."

Hearing this all from Darry makes you choke up again. He's never been so upfront. That's how you know he's terrified. "Aw, it ain't your fault." Now you feel even worse. It's easier when Darry yells. Anger is easier than sadness. "None of it is. I'm-I'm sorry."

"You don't gotta be. All you gotta do is tell us about it. Whatever happened that night, we ain't gonna say nothin'. You're still gonna be the same Ponyboy to us. Always."

You realize how utterly selfish you're being now. Maybe you have just been overreacting this whole time, worrying your brothers for nothing. Shit, you're the one who caused Curly to die. Your brothers shouldn't have to fret over someone who is responsible for so much hardship. They're better than that.

You stand up. That's when the vertigo, hiding so strategically in the corners of your mind, takes over. You hear Soda say, "Darry, grab him."

And that ends the conversation real quick.


	7. Chapter 7

_I'm baaaack. Hello. Thank you so much to everyone who read and reviewed last chapter. It means the world to me, to the point where I'm obsessively checking my email to see if someone has written anything new._

 _Warnings: more discussion of weight, use of the word "crazy" in discussing mental illness (by people in the 1960s who didn't know any better, but still), ANGST_

 _Side note: Lucozade is an actual drink that exists, however, its country of origin is England. That being said, it's hard to gauge the drink's popularity in the United States at the time.  
_

 _Please review!_

* * *

 _June 15th, 1968—7:12 PM_

Distantly, you acknowledge a faint rustling noise, like someone is rushing around. Then, when you try to open your eyes, you feel like your eyelids are stuck together. The pain in your head rivals only with the emptiness in your stomach. Finally, your eyes adjust, but you're so tired that you decide it's easier just to keep them closed.

The world shifts off its axis as you're righted, presumably by Darry or Soda. Now you sit on the ground, leaning up against the couch. It'd be more comfortable for you if your head wasn't swimming, but you're thankful that you're no longer sprawled on the carpet.

"Pony?" Soda says, and he sounds like he's close to you but distant all the same. If you were willing to open your eyes you'd be able to tell how close he is, but that's just effort you're not willing to give. You blink your eyes open again before shutting them almost as fast. There's a sharp intake of breath and then you hear, "Oh, god, thank god..."

"Hmm," you mumble ever-so-eloquently in response. You feel weird. Nothing is right at the moment. "I don't..." And that's all you get out before you sag back again.

This gets Darry and Soda to start talking.

"...people might think he's crazy..."

"...all the time. It's not always..."

"...hospital."

"...call an ambulance?...think that's so...he might not..."

That grabs your attention. "Don't call an ambulance," you try to say with conviction, yet it ends up sounding like a halfhearted argument. It still comes out as a murmur. You can only hope they understand what you're saying. "We got neighbors. I don't wanna...wash my dirty laundry in public." Your head is feeling dark and obscured, like a thick black haze.

Darry scoffs and suddenly he sounds like he's closer to you. You then realize that you've had your eyes wrenched shut this entire time. That might scare them a bit. "Like it matters in _this_ neighborhood," he says, and he's got a point. Just last week a drunk down the road threatened to shoot his girlfriend loud enough that the whole damn block could hear it, and the dogs were barking. "Ponyboy, that's the least of worries right now."

"I'm fine," you say back. How could you think of a counterargument to his point? Especially in this state, which is dizziness and nausea and aching, and nothing feels like it should.

"He's just gonna keep denyin' it," Soda says. It takes a second for you to realize he's not talking to you. "Blast it, Darry, it's like he doesn't even care."

"That's why we're goin', little buddy," Darry says back. He sounds like he usually does: firm, in control, yet understanding. "Can you walk?"

Your head hurts. Opening your eyes doesn't help. Why are you so tired? This can't be normal. You feel worse than the time you got black-out drunk at thirteen. The world spins. Someone shakes your shoulder suddenly. It hurts as you're jolted. Darry. He's always rough without meaning to be. "Ponyboy, can you walk?"

Unable to muster up any form of coherency, you say, "Mm."

You don't know how much time has passed when you feel arms around you. They're obviously Darry's, because no one else in the gang has arms that size and a vice-like grip that strong. He ain't called Muscles for nothing.

"Jesus," Darry breathes. His voice cracks. "He's a fuckin' skeleton."

It's the f-word that gets your attention. Suddenly, you want to cry more than anything. It's at this point that you open your eyes. Darry's carrying you across the threshold and then you're out the door, Sodapop close behind. He won't take his eyes off you. He's been crying too. His eyes are swollen and red but he's calm now, staying at your side.

"Darry." Groggy, you lightly tap Darry's shoulders, weakly trying but failing to get him to set you down. "Dar, come on...I can walk, I'm fine, I..." He ignores you, instead opting to place you in the backseat.

Soda lights a cigarette as the truck takes off. He has never been known to be much of a smoker, but he partakes in the habit from time to time, when he's antsy or anxious or unable to sit still. He's paler than you've ever seen him. It makes the redness of his eyes stand out. "I feel so helpless right now. Glory, it just ain't right seein' him this way." He scrubs his hands down his face and seems to crumble.

You clench your eyes shut at that sight. It seems like your heart is being squeezed real tight in your chest. You wish they wouldn't talk about you while you're right in front of them, but you realize that they probably think you're unconscious right now, seeing as how keeping your eyes open for too long is draining. So is holding yourself upright. At the moment, you're ungracefully slumped in an uncomfortable position, leaning up against the door of the truck. You jerk with every bump in the road, wishing you didn't feel so awful at the moment. How could you let yourself get this bad?

"I know," Darry says, and he sounds so fucking sad. "He always has so much goin' on in that head of his. He was always so thoughtful, so...deep in his thoughts. I've tried, Sodapop, so hard to get through to him, but..."

"He used to come to me," Soda tries to say. It almost sounds like he's underwater. "He used to tell me everything. I don't know why it stopped, but it was like a light switch. It's like he don't trust me no more. He's...he's a kid, Darry. He's too young to be killin' himself like this."

"He's seen enough for a lifetime, Sodapop." Darry's voice is stoic. "We all have, but he's been the most closely affected. All that's been happenin' in the last few months might have been a breaking point for him. Try not to take it personal, Sodapop, okay? He hasn't been talkin' to anyone. Well, anyone except Angela Shepard."

"You reckon they're an item?"

"No," Darry says seriously. "I don't think that at all. I don't think it's about romance or datin' or any of the sort. I think he feels some sort of obligation, or somethin'." It strikes you as awful funny, right then, that Darry knows you better than he lets on. After years of fighting, of him just not digging you, he finally gets it. More than you could ever have realized. You wonder what else he might know, what you thought you've managed to keep hidden. Granted, while what Darry said wasn't far off, it's not all about obligation. Part of it _is_ nice.

"See, that's the kinda thing I'm talkin' about. A few months ago, I reckon he'd have filled me in on this kinda thing." The window rolls down farther as Soda throws his cigarette butt out the window. Well, at least you assume that's what he's doing. It's kind of hard to tell when you're too disoriented to open your eyes.

"He's not much of a talker. Never been. Not since...well, not since Mom and Dad. I know that kid and the last thing he'd ever want to do is hurt you. You're real special to him, Pepsi. Right now, there's a problem we need to solve, and that's what we'll do." That's just how Darry works. Everything is a goal to reach, a destination to work for. Darry's always been black and white, while you prefer to rest in shades of grey. You shouldn't be surprised. Despite his approach to everything being expected, you find more comfort in his words than you would have thought possible. It's in moments like this that you want more than anything to just say something. Then there's the niggling voice in the back of your head that resounds, and you know nothing can ever change the way you feel at this moment.

"It just don't feel too good, is all. I mean, it ain't like I've been doin' much in the brotherly department. For the first time in my life, it's like I don't know what to do to help him. I'm so used to being able to read him, and now, well...that just ain't the case. It's shit, is what it is."

Darry hums in agreement, haggard. He radiates waves of exhaustion. This is another thing on his plate that he now has to deal with.

Sodapop continues on. "It's all just shit."

* * *

 _June 16th, 1968—12:23 AM_

When you wake up, it's in a hospital bed. Itchy sheets and a hard mattress, white walls accented with shades of tan. Almost immediately upon waking, you burst into tears. It must be a combination of the hunger, ache, disorientation, and embarrassment, because you're never one to wear your emotions on your sleeve. Not anymore.

You look over and see Sodapop, and it's harder than ever not to full on sob. Seeing you awake, he stands up quickly, the sound of chair scooting back making a squeak. He reaches over to grab your hand. "Oh, Pony," he says, clenching your hand even tighter. You pull it away from his grasp and cover your face.

"I'm sorry," you squeak. "I'm bein' a real bawl baby right now."

Soda gathers you in his arms, and you lethargically rest your head on his shoulder. "No, don't. You ain't a bawl baby. You're the toughest person I ever met. Even Dallas Winston ain't got nothin' on you."

It makes you smile through your tears, mostly because it's so drastically untrue that it's laughable. But it's the thought that counts, you suppose, and it feels better to be in his arms than you could say.

You sag back onto the bed. "Where's Darry?"

Soda seems to hesitate for a moment before replying. He looks at his hands like he's nervous. "Home. He's gettin' some stuff. He should be back soon."

You make a note of his weird reaction but keep going. "How long have I been here?"

"Five hours." Soda puts his head in his hands again. He's visibly upset, though he's not crying and his words sound numb. He's as pale as a ghost. "You're malnourished. They, uh...they said you're lucky your organs haven't started failing. Your lungs...they were startin' to feel the strain."

You look up at the ceiling to stop your eyes from welling up again. Jesus. Jesus Christ. You're on a downward trajectory, going faster than you thought. You thought you could handle this, thought you had things under control. You ask, because you have to know, "Are you mad at me?"

"No. 'Course not."

You look around, taking in your surroundings, looking at the IV in your hand.

Soda says, "They think you're doin' it on purpose, Ponyboy." Soda shakes his head, like he can't believe it. "Fuck. I screamed at the doctors 'til I was blue in the face. I told them to keep lookin' for problems here. Somethin's gotta be wrong. A-And Darry...Darry just accepted it all. You hear that? He just fuckin' sat back and let the doctors tell us that our brother is _—_ " He stops right there.

"What? Is what?"

"You're not fuckin' crazy, alright? You hear me, kiddo? You ain't."

Again, you're not surprised. Your brothers are like fucking cardboard cutouts when it comes to their predictability. Sodapop will never believe, going so far as to deny something he has had to know since the beginning. Darry will, but grudgingly. Suddenly you turn away from him, feeling so, so awful. You can't bear to have him look at you. Your heart beats so loud in your ears you can barely hear yourself say, in a small voice, "Maybe I am doin' it on purpose."

Soda blanches, obviously at a loss for words. Maybe it's because you're confirming his fears. "Pony, what? Come on, now..."

You still look away from him, slouched back against the pillow. The tubes in your nose itch. "It ain't my choice, sure, but...but, maybe I could have tried a bit harder, is all." You look down. Exhale through your mouth. "I didn't try hard enough. Maybe...maybe it's 'cause I didn't want to."

Suddenly you're not feeling conversational at all. You can't believe you'd ever say something like that out loud. You've always had the reputation as a dreamer, but Sodapop might be the most quick to his emotions as anyone in the gang. And now your brothers going to get the wrong idea. Now they're going to think you're not okay.

Your older brother sits back in silence for a second. Then he cracks. "Now look who's the bawl baby," he says and he tries and fails to smile. "Darry and me, we're gonna do everything we can to help you out, savvy? You know you can talk to me anytime, right?"

"Yeah."

"I just wish you would open up to me," he implores. "No one's gotta face burdens alone in our family."

"Yeah."

"It was so scary, seein' you like that. I don't think you're gettin' it. It was like that damned rumble all over again, except so much worse this time. I didn't know whether you were gonna wake up or not. You're _skin and bones_ , honey. As you were goin' down, all I could think was, _What if this is it?_ and _How did we let it get this far?_ I thought about all the bad things I've ever said to you. You fell down so fast, Darry couldn't even get you. You were _right there_ , and neither of us could fuckin' pick you up in time. Maybe...maybe that's just how things have been lately. You've been so close to us, yet so far away all the time." He wipes his eyes and takes a deep breath. At this point, you're not sure if he's actually trying to talk to you or if he's propelling a stream of consciousness. "I don't know, Pone. I'm a real sorry son of a bitch."

"I'm sorry, Soda, god, I _—_ "

At this time, a nurse walks in, an air of pomp and circumstance accompanying her. She cuts the tension in the room in half with a knife. "Now..." She looks down at your chart. "P-Pony...boy?"

Used to this reaction, you smile at her and nod.

Soda doesn't. "Ponyboy," he snaps. "His name's Ponyboy."

"My apologies, dear. That sure is a lovely name, interestin' too." She's sweet, a woman of around fifty, with mousy brown hair framing her face.

You smile softly back despite your head feeling like it may explode. "This is my brother. Sodapop."

"What's your other brother's name? Candybar?"

You laugh back to be polite, wishing you were dead. Soda just sits there, stock still, like he's glued to the chair. Usually, he's all charm, and would do anything to finesse her, using a bright smile and wide eyes. But now, after your whole debacle, he's still licking his wounds, cooling off. He has a hard time talking about the things that bother him. He doesn't always know how to cope with the strong things he feels. After fights, rumbles, races, or anything that gets his energy up, he has a hard time coming back down.

She adjusts the tubes, puts something into your IV. Then, she stands next to you and says, "Now, the most important thing we can do right now is focus on getting you back up to a healthy weight. We don't want to give you too many nutrients at a time, so it's important that we find a balance for what your body can and cannot handle, okay?"

"I'm thirsty," you say back, choosing to not address what she was saying.

"Okay. I'll be right back, darling." She pats your head. It would be annoying if most other people did that, but you found it to be oddly affectionate.

You turn to your brother. He still sits there like the epitome of melancholy. He looks unapproachable, and it's in that moment that you remember that he is still kind of a hood. Barring his emotions, his stress, his charm, and his good looks, sometimes he can be scary to the outside onlooker.

But you're not just some outsider. "How long am I gonna be here?"

"They don't know yet. I guess we'll find out when Darry's back."

When the nurse arrives again, she hands you a drink in a styrofoam cup. It's evidently not water, but before you can ask, she explains. It's a glucose drink, Lucozade, designed to help your metabolic processes.

Thirsty, you drink it anyway and the taste of sickly sweet liquid fills your mouth. Sodapop and the nurse both watch you intently to make sure you drink it all. It's not water like you asked, but it'll have to do.

* * *

 _"Maybe you oughta stop, Curly. You've been doin' good enough for tonight."_

 _"Nah, Curtis," Curly says. "Where's your ambition, huh?"_

 _You smile at him. Feel the pull of nervousness in your bones._

 _The man in black still watches._


	8. Chapter 8

_Hey, so. Uh. Things have changed quite a bit for me! For example, I moved to London (for just a few months as I'm on exchange, but still)! Wow! I'd never even left America before and now I've lived here for over a month. So, I'm sorry that this installment is super late. My life has been a chaotic mess and I always doubt myself, but I've especially doubted this specific story. I value character accuracy, and I don't believe that my story is truly indicative of that. However, it's all for fun, so whatever, right? I hope you're still enjoying this!_

 _ **Warning**_ _: talk of mental health, eating disorders, food, weight, treatment, swearing, etc._

 _ **Please review**! I'm always encouraged by them :)_

* * *

 _June 16th, 1968—11:44 AM_

Being in the hospital is embarrassing.

Darry fusses. You let him. Sometimes, it's just nice to lay back and _be_. To sit there and let things happen, let people act the way they want without trying to change things for everyone all the time.

For once, Darry's not pressuring you about your lack of discretion. He's not chastising, pointing fingers, wondering where your head's at. He's patient and calm and quiet and whenever you so much as raise your voice, he backs off instantly, opting instead for a blank and patient stare. It would all be fine and dandy but you know this isn't Darry. Soda's never been one for tact but Darry has, walking on eggshells all the time because he believes the doctors when they say that maybe you're not all right in the head. You get now how Darry was able to get custody of you both in the first place. He's hot headed, sure, but responsible and tolerant when absolutely necessary.

You never thought you'd be in a position where you want your oldest brother to be on the defensive mode, like he used to be all the time—back when mom and dad's memory was at its freshest in everyone's mind—but at this moment, you'd take anything over this.

They haven't talked much. Darry and Soda. Maybe it's cause Darry understands, and Sodapop never wants to. You're not even sure you understand yourself.

They're at work. You've been here for just over a day now and the doctors, all white washed coats and hushed whispers, are talking about keeping it long term, which you all could never afford. You're fine, though. Maybe a missing marble here and there, but generally speaking, it could be worse.

It took a lot of convincing to make them go to work. They'd never want to leave you behind. But after a while, it gets to become a bit smothering.

You push the button on the side of the bed that lets you recline back, listening to the _whrrr_ as it goes. Currently, it's 11:44 AM, just before the nurses _would_ provide lunch. They'd provide you lunch at a regimented time _if_ you were a regular patient.

Instead they give you little things every hour, and it always sets your teeth on edge. Bottles of Pedialyte, mostly. They give it to you because they think you're doing it on purpose. That you're starving yourself because you're not all there. Maybe that's true. No one else in the world seems to have the problem you have, that you can't eat because it all tastes like mush and Mentholatum and bologna and shit.

The TV plays a black-and-white episode of _Petticoat Junction_. There's an older man in the bed adjacent to you. He's hooked up to some machines like you, but the way he lounges back in the bed tells you he's a bit more comfortable here than you ever could be.

You're not supposed to, but you hop up off your declined bed and draw the curtains to separate yourself from him. You've always been a loner, but these days, you're straight up antisocial. You hurry as much as you can in your actions, 'cause if a nurse walked in, you think that she just might beat you silly. You swear, it's like they think you'll keel over the second you get up. It sorta feels that way but you doubt you would.

You're itching for something. A cigarette, a sketchpad, a notebook. Hell, any kind of stimuli, since this place feels like it's numbing your brain even more than it already is numbed. You wanna ask a doctor how long you're gonna be here.

You opt instead to lie back. Sleep beckons.

* * *

 _June 16th, 1968—3:43 PM_

You're woken up some time later by the sound of footsteps bounding through the door. Assuming its a nurse or one of your brothers, you're more than able to fall back into the comforting pull of unconsciousness.

There's a feeling of a hand on your shoulder. At first, you're confused by the roughness of it, knowing that the nurses have been nothing but overly gentle thus far and that your brothers think you're so fragile that at this point they're afraid to even look at you funny.

You instantly open your eyes when not one Shepard, but two, stroll in. Tim's got his usual swagger, a toothpick between his teeth, and grease in his hair. Angela follows behind him. She looks pissed. Her arms are crossed in front of her and she's just got that look on her face.

You shoot up in bed. "Uh—"

"How now, Curtis," Tim says, and it's the way that he says it that doesn't sit right in your stomach. It's like he wants something. "How you been?"

"Uh, I been better," you reply, absolutely mortified for anyone to see you in this position. There's still a questioning lilt in your voice. Quickly you risk a glance at Angela, wondering what the hell is going on here. Then you look over quickly to make sure your roommate isn't in the room. He has physical therapy at this time. Thank god.

"That's enough of the pleasantries, don't you think, Curtis?" He sinks down into a chair next to your bed and flips on a lamp. Without a second thought, he throws his used toothpick straight to the ground. "I think it's about time we—"

"Why didn't you tell me you were here, Pony?" Angela interrupts. She doesn't sound mad or indignant when she says it. She sounds more scared than she has any right to be. With wide eyes, she examines you from head to toe. You know what she's seeing: the sunken cheeks, the feeding tube, the bottles of glucose and sugar and electrolytes. The pamphlets on depression. Suddenly, you feel your eyes well up a bit with tears. You wish you could just fold yourself up into the reclining bed. "What happened?"

Clearing your throat, your eyes manage to clear as well. "H-How...how did you even know I was here?"

"Little birdie," says Tim, who doesn't seem to notice how emotional you just got. How much of a bawl baby you are. That little birdie means Two-Bit. He always means well, but god help him, he just can't keep his mouth shut about things. You nod at his response, though it doesn't really feel right in your stomach. Tim Shepard ain't the type to make hospital visits. Maybe he did for Dally way back then. But that was different. Miles different.

Tim may not have noticed, but you think that Angela might have. She's a bit more perceptive than anyone gives her credit for. She stands still, looking uncomfortable. Her voice is saccharine. "You okay, Ponyboy? Are you good?"

"Aw, well look at that." Tim sits back farther in the chair and puts his arms behind his head, watching the scene unfold. "You're gettin' sweet on 'im, Ang. Ain't that fuckin' cute."

A lot of girls in Angela's position would be blushing at that. Angela isn't like a lot of other girls. Instead, she walks up to Tim, fist balled like she might hit him, but stops mid-stride. She's tough, but she's smart enough to know that she couldn't possibly win that fight.

The only thing it does for you is confirm your theory. She's into you again. You figure as long as she's not sending a hit out on you, then it should be fine this time around. She's grown since then. You find it unlikely that she would.

"Shut up, Tim," she bitterly says, and she scowls. She focuses her attention on his face. "Why don't _you_ tell _me_ why the fuck we're even here in the first place."

You'd like to know that too.

Tim is lackadaisical. Calm, but like the eye of a hurricane. As though any moment now there will be a tiny shift and then... "Well, Curtis, Angie here tells me that you were there. That night. You know the one."

Your palms instantly start to sweat and your mouth goes a bit dry. There's not a nurse or one of your brothers in sight. "I was."

"And why the fuck didn't I know that?" He doesn't seem to be talking directly to you when he says that. More just like an open hypothetical. "It sorta seems like something I should be fuckin' aware of."

You understand Tim's frustration. In fact, you've been avoiding him like he's the plague because you expected it. Besides, he's the guy who seems to know everything. The one that's always up to date on the word on the street. For something about his dead little brother to go right under his nose, well hell, you'd be irked too. Especially 'cause everyone seemed to know _except_ for him.

"Well, hell, Tim," you start to say, trying more than anything to keep your voice under control. Never show weakness to a hood as greasy as Tim Shepard. "I ain't been seein' much of you around lately."

"Ain't no one been seein' him. 'Cept maybe the fuzz that haul him in every other week or so. Or maybe the owners of the liquor store down the street. It just really makes me wonder, is all. Why now, Tim?" Angela says it all in one breath, like this is something that's been on her mind for a while now. It's like no one can get a whole thought out before someone's interrupting. Constant disjointed conversation where everyone says a lot but no one really says anything. "This entire time you been sittin' there, pretendin' none of it happened, and now what, you wanna harass one of his _friends_?"

"I ain't harassin' him. Christ. You know, you really gotta quit bein' such a fuckin' drama queen, Ang. You used to be pretty tuff. What happened?"

This is getting a little too intimate for your liking. You feel like you're an outsider looking in, like you're seeing something you shouldn't. The Shepards are known to start a fight anywhere, regardless of the consequences or the location. You're not sure if it would be a good or a bad thing if a nurse came in and kicked them out. You just wanna be alone.

Tim turns to you. "Look, kid, I don't know what the fuck you're doin' here, or why, but I just wanna know what happened. You were with him when it happened. I just...I gotta know what happened, man. How were you involved?"

"Oh, Tim, knock it off!" Angela grabs your arm tightly. Swiftly, she faces you. Her face is pinched up in a way that looks like she might cry, but you don't see any tears. "You ain't gotta answer him." She turns back to her brother, maintaining the vice-like grip on your arm. "Can't you see he ain't well, Tim?"

"Well ain't got nothin' to do with it. Let the kid speak," Tim says with a dismissive wave.

"But _why now_?" she repeats. "For months since it happened, I been tryin' to get something outta ya. For you to talk about _him_. You've just been actin' like a damned fool this entire time, Tim...out of your mind with, I don't know...somethin'...I just wanna know what's gotten into ya now, huh? Why do you care so much all of a sudden, huh?"

Tim seems to boil at that. "Shut your trap, Ang, or get out if you don't wanna hear what your boyfriend has to say."

She slugs him on the arm this time. "Damn it, he ain't my boyfriend! I just wanted you to talk to _me_ about Curly. Not go half-cocked to one of his best friends so you can go on some fucked-to-hell revenge mission."

"Is it that much of a fuckin' crime to want to know how your brother was killed? Goddamn it, Angela, don't you wanna know?"

"The cops looked into it, Tim, they were doin'—"

"Oh, screw the cops. When have they ever given a good goddamn about us?"

You're like an omniscient presence in this scenario, there but not really there. Just a witness, a fly on the wall.

Angela sits there for a second, shaking her head with a simmering rage. Something in her mind seems to finally come together. "You're drunk," Angela says. "God, I shoulda known. When ain't you these days, right? How could I let you drive here?"

"Why the fuck do you care?" Tim leans forward, putting his head in his hands. Swiftly, he pulls out a pack of cancer sticks from his shirt pocket and sticks one between his mouth. You're about to tell him that there's no smoking allowed, but you don't. This is the most quiet the room has been since these two waltzed in.

A nurse tells him for you. In the midst of all the chaos, no one heard her scurry in the cramped room. She seems a bit scared as she walks in, but she holds her head high. Her hair's pulled up in a bun so tight it's a wonder the skin on her face isn't pinched up. "Sir, sir, there's no smoking in here!"

Tim makes direct eye contact with her and keeps it as he reaches again into his pocket and fishes for his lighter. He folds it expertly through his fingers for a second before lighting it. He gives her a smirk that would drive anyone nuts. If you weren't in the position you were in, you might have laughed a bit at that.

"Look, sir," the nurse continues, seeming to grow a thicker skin right before our eyes. "I tolerated the yelling for a bit. But I will not have you—you _ragamuffins_ coming in and upsetting my patient. He is not in a position for this type of behavior. If you do not put that out immediately, I will have no choice but to ask you to leave."

"Ragamuffins," he states, putting a hand over his chest. "Oh, lady, you keep up that language and I might just shed a tear or two."

Angela looks vaguely annoyed, but she hides a smile with her hand. You just roll your eyes with slight amusement. Leave it to Tim to provide you with such an emotional roller coaster. A roller coaster bigger than that one time when you were ten and your entire family went to Six Flags down in Arlington, and Soda made you get on the biggest coaster with him. Bigger than that.

The nurse puts her hands on her hips, bottle of some kind of nutrients buried in one. "You do realize he's sick, right? That he's a patient in a hospital. He shouldn't be dealing with something like this at the moment. The shouting cannot continue. And you most definitely cannot be smoking in here."

"Let's just go, Tim," Angela says quietly, nudging her brother.

Tim holds his hands up in mock-surrender, ashing his cigarette directly out on a hospital tray. The nurse turns away briefly, horrified, then gathers her bearings as she shifts back to face you all. "Alright, alright," he mumbles. "For fuck's sake..."

"Come on," Angela says again. She tries to manually pull her older brother up, but he doesn't budge. "You heard what she said. He ain't feelin' well. Let's just leave it at that."

By some weird stroke of luck, it's at this time that Darry walks in. He's carrying a bag that looks like a burlap sack in one hand and a Pepsi in the other. "Shepard?"

"Oh, hey, Darry," Tim says with that same easygoing cadence to his voice.

Darry straightens up. Oh, no. That's his stance when he's about ready to pummel someone. A power stance. "You wanna explain to me what you're doin' here?"

The nurse, confused at the tension, turns to Angela and you. You're both sitting there, vaguely numb to it all as it's all out of your control at this point. The nurse leans over Angela to adjust the various cords that seem to be sprouting out of you.

"Came to ask your little brother what happened, is all," Tim says proudly, but his drunkenness seems to catch up with him as his words slur. "You know what I'm talkin' about. That night all the way back in March."

It's with that that Darry, in all his pride and might, takes Tim into the hallway. Normally, the last thing you would want is for your brother to fight your battles for you. But as exhaustion seeps into your bones, it's a welcome reprieve to just let it happen.

You don't know who you are these days.

Angela takes Tim's spot in the chair next to your bed. She picks a bit at her fingers and then looks at you. You know questions will be coming later.

You just aren't sure how to answer.

The shouts between Tim and Darry are heard in the hallway. At this point, you're not sure what they're fighting about. They're liable to get kicked out before they even solve anything. You reckon Tim thinks it might be your fault that Curly died.

The feeling of Angela's eyes on you and the _clickety-clack_ of the nurse's shoes are the only things that keep you from falling asleep on the spot.


	9. Chapter 9

_Hey! Quick update for you all._

 _Thanks so, so much for your kind words! They mean so much to me. :) I hope you enjoy this chapter, because I'm a bit divided on it._

 _I definitely view this chapter as introductory, and that we're headed on a different path after this one. This introduces some more of what's to come in the ensuing chapters, though there doesn't seem to be too much going on at this moment in the story._

 _Please heed the warnings from previous chapters. This is angsty as hell, even by my standards. Regardless, please review. :)_

 ** _IMPORTANT AUTHOR'S NOTE:_**

 ** _I didn't review my own story under my name. It's a long, long story, but an old friend of mine, Billy, aka fanfic user_ you cried for the moon _has had access to my fanfic account since around 2012 because we shared it for a while, right before he made his own account. We kinda stopped talking for a while and we recently got back in touch and started talking about the times when we shared the account. He's since forgotten his own login stuff, but he logged in on my account and reviewed my own story on that because we'd been talking about it for a while._**

 ** _It's actually super embarrassing because I don't want people to think that I'm that person who would do that. I admittedly had a bit of a heart attack when I first saw that I had a review under my own name. I thought I was going insane for a second because I didn't remember typing it, then I actually read the review and knew it was from him._**

 ** _Check out his stories, if you like. If you see the reviews on his, you know we go way back and that while this is not a common occurrence, he has been known to log in onto my account just to snoop, I guess._**

 ** _Billy, it's cool and all, just make sure you let me know if you're gonna do something like that. Now I'm taking the heat for it._**

* * *

 _June 16th, 1968—4:22 PM_

Darry slams the door behind him.

"Alright, now, Muscles," Angela mumbles under her breath, just loud enough for you to hear it and no one else. The nurse sees this as her window of opportunity to peel out of there, and she does, eyes daggers. She obviously does not approve.

Angela's still reclined back into the chair next to your bed. You've since turned on the TV again and have been pretending to be very invested in whatever is playing.

"Is it serious?" she asked you, right when Darry and Tim first started going at it like cats and dogs out in the hallway. The dim lamp next to her shaded her face in a way that was eerie. "You ain't...dyin' or nothin', are you, Ponyboy?"

It sorta gives you the creeps over how she can change her voice to hard as a rock to scared and, almost...innocent in a way. The switching back and forth is enough to make your head spin. "I ain't dyin'."

She let out an exhale at that. "Okay." And she seemed to ponder that for a second. Her eyes got a little foggy looking, like she was staring at something real intently but not really seeing much of anything. Lost in her head. She looked down at the floor again and you closed your eyes.

"You'd...you'd tell me if you were, right?" she finally said, causing your eyes to fly right back open.

"Sure, I would."

"Are you sure?"

"Sure, I'm sure."

"The tube in your nose," she said, after a moment's pause. "What's it for?" She's never been known for couth.

"Nothin' much. They give it to most patients." You relied on the hope that she has no medical knowledge.

She wanted to say _bullshit!_ in that moment. You could tell. But she didn't. And it's sad because she just wants to believe you all the time. She'll deny it if asked but she fancies you so much. But she surprised you a bit with what she said next.

"I had a husband, you know," she said like it was nothing, picking a hangnail.

"Yeah, I know."

"He lied to me. Lied to me all the time. Right to my face, too. And there wasn't a damned thing I coulda done about it."

You didn't know what to say. "Okay."

"Don't go doin' the same shit, Curtis. You're better than that. Dig it?"

You're not. Better than that. "Okay."

Now, the resounding echo of the door slamming pulls you out of your stupor. Angela still looks like she's thinking about something, like she'll burst at the seams at any moment. But she still stays quiet for a bit, numb to it all.

"Your brother's gone, Angela," Darry says, sidling up to you both, finally setting down the things he's had in his hands this entire time. "Made himself scarce." _I reckon you should do the same,_ hangs unsaid in the air.

"Goddamn it," she swears under her breath. She stands up out of her chair, patting her pockets like she's looking for something before dejectedly sitting right back down again. "Okay." She rubs her palms on her jeans. You'd think she was nervous if you thought it at all possible.

Darry throws a glance your way and you lock eyes with him for a second before settling back to her. Angela remains oblivious, staring down at her hands instead. She doesn't really have girly hands, like the hands Socy girls have. Hers are a bit worn and her nails aren't painted. She's greasy through and through.

Despite this, she's still a girl. Now, Darry deals with boys every day of his life. Sure, he's had experience with ladies in his heyday. When he was a highschooler instead of a parent. It'd be obtuse to assume that a guy as handsome as he is wouldn't. You remember the days of the past, before Mom and Dad and Johnny and Dallas when he went with a few girls, mostly taking them on dates to the pictures or little restaurants. But this isn't really like that at all. Despite his experience with women, you can tell he just doesn't know what to say to Angela. That's okay. You feel like that too sometimes.

"You need a ride home, Angela?" Darry says with that voice of his. The one he uses on you when he has no idea what you want from him. When he's trying not to show you that he's frustrated and floundering.

"Well, Superman, I was thinkin' more of stayin' here for a bit." She tucks a short piece of hair behind her ear.

Darry blinks, leaning forward and putting his hands on the guard rail on your bed like he's bracing himself. He didn't expect this response. You can almost see him counting backwards from ten, trying not to lose his cool completely. The fight with Tim must have really taken it out of him.

"Look, Pony," Darry says, facing his attention towards you. "I hate to leave you here by your lonesome. But it's gettin' dark out, and...well, it just ain't right to me to let a girl make a long walk home alone. Especially in these streets."

You're about to agree with him. Not because you think she needs protection, but because you just want to be left alone. With a book and maybe that Pepsi that Darry was carrying earlier.

But Angela gets there first. "Oh, I can take anyone, Superman," she affirms. "Ain't no one gonna mess with me anyhow." Her voice softens exponentially. "And besides...I...I wanted to stay with Pony for a bit."

Darry's lost. He doesn't know how to kick her out without being mean. Darry's always been a bit of a softy when it came to girls. Even the most tough as nails ones. "Well, he can't have guests too much longer."

"Okay, well I'll stay 'til then."

"You ain't helpin' him by bein' here, ya know," Darry says, gradually getting his footing. As much as Darry hates being mean to girls, the one thing he hates even more is feeling out of control in any given situation. "He needs his rest. You ain't helpin' him at all."

"Sure, I'm helpin' him. I'm bein' supportive or whatever." She shakes her head, not meeting anyone's eyes as she continues. "Man, I don't even know what the big fuckin' deal is. What are you even doin' here if you ain't sick, huh, Ponyboy? You said you ain't sick, right?"

You never said that. You said you weren't dying. Turns out there are multiple types of sickness.

"God, just—just _go home_ , Angela," you finally say, hoping to make your oldest brother's job a bit easier. He doesn't want her here when he talks about Tim. About what Tim said about you. "You ain't needed here. Just _get out_."

You say it in a way that's most certainly cruel. You don't know what's gotten into you, but this is the first time you've really felt anything since you got here save for some hazy despondency. You just know you want her gone and if this is what it takes, then so be it. She's Angela Shepard. She's used to getting what she wants. And what she wants in this moment is to stay.

What you want is for her to leave. For everyone to just stop breathing down your neck.

Darry seems taken aback by your tonality, but he's not rebuking you for your rudeness, so you guess that maybe it's a win.

She doesn't reply at first. Instead just staring at you with a look that borders hurt, but is more likened to anger. Embarrassed for getting scolded at like a kid. Hell hath no fury like an Angela Shepard scorned.

She stands up quickly, grabbing your copy of a paperback version of _Wuthering Heights,_ that was read by you ages ago but remained untouched in this hospital, on a little lamp-lit table beside your bed. You don't protest as she walks away with it at a steady pace, right through the door.

Darry gives you a sheepish look and a shrug, saying without a pause for breath, "Sodapop should be here soon. If you need anything, call for a nurse. Or call the DX and talk to Steve or whoever's up there. I'll be right back." He starts follwing right behind her. Typical Darry, feeling responsible for everyone but himself.

You put your head in your hands, regret churning your insides. Boy, you just can't get right.

* * *

 _June 16th, 1968—4:51 PM_

You recognize the easygoing pattern of his footsteps before you see him. It's almost like Soda dances when he walks, falling into a simple rhythm everywhere he goes. That's a talent and grace you just don't got.

"Boy, it sure is hot out there," he says, fanning himself. Sweat coats his face.

You wouldn't know. So you just look at him. He seems fine, but as he sits down, you see the jitters in his hands and legs, like he wishes he could crawl out of his skin and be anywhere but here. He smells like smoke too. Soda ain't much of a smoker, but it does take the edge off. Now that's something you'd know all about.

"Yeah, I tell ya," he continues. "Me and Steve thought we was gonna have a heat stroke!"

You stare at him. He's faltering and it's bad. He has no idea what to do. He's so used to knowing exactly what to do that this is hitting him especially hard.

"What did you do today, kid?"

"Watched television, mostly," you say with a shrug, completely leaving out the bits about Tim and Angela. Though Soda and Darry have been subtly avoiding each other, Darry will tell Soda about it. It's amazing how their dynamic changed from Darry raising both of you to the two of them forming some kind of dynasty. You think that maybe if you weren't such a lousy brother and resident crazy person, then it wouldn't have to be like that.

When you try to adjust the tube in your nose, Soda pulls your hand away at a speed that would make Hermes proud. The way his eyes look in that moment is horrible. It's like when you first collapsed, when he stared at you like you were something to be cherished, something made of glass. The intensity of it all is enough to make you sick. Only Soda has ever made you feel this good. This time it hurts because you know you don't deserve it.

He thinks you're trying to pull it out. The tube. That you don't want it. That ain't exactly the case. It's not like you wanna lose weight. It's food itself you have a problem with. The tube is basically like the best of both worlds.

"Sounds more interestin' than my day," he says as though that fleeting moment never happened. "Unless you consider auto repair an interestin' field."

You give one of those laughs that isn't really a laugh, more just a breath out of your nose. It's to appease him mostly.

"You, uh...you been to any therapy yet?"

"No." They wanted to wait for you to be a bit more physically capable before they started picking your brain apart like some demented mental vivisection. Sounds diplomatic enough.

"When are they?"

"I don't know." You give him a pointed, knowing look, dipping your head a little as you do so. "You might wanna actually _talk_ to Darry about it. He always knows these types of things."

Soda has the decency to look a bit ashamed. He runs a hand over the back of his neck. "You caught onto that, huh? Yeah...Darry and me...well, we don't always seem to agree on things. It'll...it'll blow over, kid. I promise you that."

You never doubted that eventually everything would work out between the two of them. It always did with them. But for now, you're tired of the constant walking of eggshells and how no one seems to want to be around each other, ever.

"Where is Darry anyhow? Still at work?" asks Sodapop.

"If I had to guess, it'd be somewhere 'round East Latimer Street by now."

"What's he doin' in that territory?"

"Takin' Angela Shepard home."

His face scrunches up for a second. "What in Sam Hill was she doin' here? You seein' her, Ponyboy?"

"No, it ain't like that. She just wanted to see me and didn't have a ways back, is all."

Soda has every right to look as confused as he does at that.

Nevertheless, he keeps going. "How are the day nurses? I haven't really gotten 'round to meetin' many yet. They treatin' you okay?"

"Yeah, real good." You attempt a smile. "One of them is new so when she was trying to adjust my feeding tube it didn't really go down too hot. She had the mouth of a sailor on her, that one."

You were trying to coax a smile out of him at that, at the idea of a new nurse messing something up and being so unprofessional as to not hold back on the swear words.

Instead, he scrunches his face together and covers his face with his hands. He breathes in deep and his shoulders seem to get closed in on each other. You're both just sitting there, quietly, and for once it's _you_ who has no idea what to do.

"Soda." He doesn't move. His shoulders shake a bit. Equal parts confused and concerned, you reach out to touch him. "Soda, what's the matter?" You make note of the fact that the man on the other side of this hospital room is back, and you're not sure you want him to hear all this. But you guess that sometimes things just happen, even if it's not the way you want it to.

Sodapop breathes in real deep again, seeming like he can't get enough air. Gradually, he moves his hands from his face. He's not crying yet but he looks like he's about to, his face paling a few shades. "Sorry, I ain't sure what the matter is with me. I just...I can't stand the sight of you here, is all. And Darry, well, he's beside himself. He may not seem it yet, but he is. And I...well, I ain't sure what to do anymore. I used to be able to see right through you and now? It's like you're on a whole 'nother planet. Ever since Curly was killed it's like you been in a trance or something."

You say nothing, trying not to flinch at the mention of his name.

"I'm okay."

"No, Pony," he says. "Shut up with that, alright? I don't wanna hear it. You said you were okay months ago. We—I thought we had a fuckin' agreement, Pony. That you would tell me if somethin' was up. If you weren't feelin' okay. If you needed any help."

"That agreement also involved you not tellin' Darry anything, but you didn't exactly hold up your side of the deal either."

"You could have _died_ , Pony!" Soda looks at you, looks deep into your eyes. "Jesus, what is it gonna take to get that through your head? You still ain't even in the clear yet. They wanna keep you here for a bit, in case you didn't know." His eyes burn. This has been simmering under the surface for a long time and it's all finally coming to a boil.

"I thought you weren't mad at me."

He almost laughs but shakes his head instead, incredulously. "Jesus, I ain't—I ain't _mad_ , alright?" He breathes out some excuse for a chuckle and stands up out of the chair, pacing around instead like a madman, unable to contain all that energy.

For the longest time now, ever since you started sleeping around with girls and since you stopped eating like you should, every time you've talked to Sodapop, you've just felt this feeling, as though something was just _waiting_ to happen. Teeming on the edge of.. _.something_. Like you were both suspended in this purgatorial nothingness, just waiting for something to come into fruition. Maybe this is it.

"You _seem_ mad."

"You're bein' ridiculous, Pone. I don't know what it's gonna take for you to understand the—the seriousness of this all. What's it gonna take for you to just _eat_ something? How many times are you gonna pass out on the floor before we go to pick you up and you don't wake up?" He still stands pacing rapidly, making you feel anxious. Like he's about to bolt out of the door without a second thought.

This makes you tear up. "You're actin' like this is all my fault, Soda. Like I—like I wanted this to all happen."

With this, the cracks in the foundation form. He deflates before your eyes. You don't think you've ever spoken with more sincerity than when you say, "The last thing I ever want is to hurt you and Darry. I know I'm...I know I'm always causin' trouble, but...I'm sorry. I didn't mean for..."

"Oh, Pony," he says, and he cautiously sinks down in the seat again. He's still this time, no facade of eager conversation. The smell of smoke still lingers. You're dying for one right about now. "I was real outta line. Oh, kiddo, I'm a shit. I'm real sorry."

"It's okay."

"You ain't a burden. Hell, you could kill a man and the first thing I'd do is help you hide the body. It's just hard, is all. Darry said it earlier. It's hard seein' the ones you care about strugglin'. It ain't my idea of a picnic, seein' you in here. I can only imagine how you're feelin' right about now."

You sit quietly, even more drained than before, which you didn't even think was possible.

"Me and Darry, we'll work on it," he assures you, his voice suddenly taking on a more even keel. "We don't exactly see eye to eye on what happens next, but we'll get there." He rubs his eyes. "Oh, glory, I think I might spend the rest of my life tryin' to make it up to you somehow. I know it ain't your fault. I'm just...I'm real sorry."

You lie back. Feel your eyes sting. "It's okay."

You should be the one apologizing.


	10. Chapter 10

_Hello, I'm baaack. I hope you enjoy this chapter! Thank you so, so much for the reviews (that includes you, vaguely mean/curious anon that did not see that there was a misunderstanding with the handling of my account, lol...I feel like something like that could only happen to me)._

 _Please tell me what you think of this one. Some of the mystery is seeming to become unraveled, but there is still some angst to go. This is a bit of a shorter chapter and for that, I am sorry. But I'm really seeing a clear direction for this story and am more than excited to keep up on this. I just hope you stick with it as well! I'm really used to writing stories with eight chapters max (minus the odd exception) so this is starting to flow into longer work material. _

_Thank you, lovely people. Emjoy. Pardon typos._

* * *

 _The man that watches you all night from across the bar has hair that is parted in a way that reminds you of Kirk Douglas_ — _shorter than how most younger greasers wear it, but slicked back in a way that screams tuff. He's relatively nondescript, with eyes that are so dark it's almost like he doesn't have pupils._

 _Curly's in the middle of another game of pool. That holds his attention pretty well, and he's very easygoing about it all, but you're on the edge of your seat. Because it's obvious that Curly's cheating. You've never been notorious for being good at pool, but Curly seems to have an affinity for it. Even without the hustling, he'd be giving anyone a run for his money._

 _It's that man in the chair, the one who has his eyes on you, on Curly, that unnerves you. You hate this feeling - of a tugging in your chest. You know you're going to get in trouble._

 _The man drinks a scotch and runs his hand through his hair, though it's got to be a bit hardened by all the hairspray and pomade holding it in place. He balances a cigarette over his drink._

 _You face Curly then, watching as he purposely fucks up another round. This is how he always does it; he makes himself look like an idiot so he's the one winning in the end._

 _This time he's up against an older man, with a long beard and a beer belly that hangs over his belt buckle. You chuckle to yourself for a second, wondering if this is where Two-Bit is going to end up when he's an old geezer like this guy._

 _Curly's uncaring and unflinching, and Geezer falls right into his trap. He thinks he's found some dumbass kid that doesn't know how to handle a game (his words, not yours). At this, you look up at the clock. The man in the black is gone now. You didn't see him leave, but somehow, his absence doesn't really make you feel any more relieved._

 _When Curly wins, he whoops and hollers. Obviously, Geezer is pissed off at this, but he slams a beer and walks away, shaking his head. You've both been here for a few hours now. Curly's cutting it close. Someone here is bound to catch on to what he's scheming._

 _When Curly wins, he really wins. Boy howdy, he wins big._

 _This is when the excitement starts hitting you. With the sketchy man in black no longer breathing down your neck, you feel yourself relax a bit. Curly has always had that effect on you. He could propose the most nonsensical plan and a few minutes later you'd somehow find yourself going along with it._

 _At first, you figured that you and Curly should get the hell out of dodge._

 _Then, you saw that gleam in his eye. It's the same one Soda and even Darry get before rumbles. The one all of you get. There's always been a certain look in a greaser's eye that seems to separate you all from the rest of them._

 _His exuberance is contagious. He cheers and orders another beer and buys you two shots of something or other (Jager, you assume, 'cause that's always his drink of choice), and that's it._

 _He keeps going on. After a while, it's like you've switched, and he tells you that he should stop. That he'll get caught. Suddenly, he's the voice of reason._

 _You tell him to keep going. "Come on," you goad. You summon a quote from earlier: "Where's your_ ambition _at, Curly? You wanna give up now? Why quit now when you're still ahead? Ain't that what the saying is? Don't quit while you're ahead?"_

 _"Oh, Curtis," he says back with a laugh, obviously aware of how obliterated you are. The alcohol works fast. "I don't think that's how the saying goes at all." But he decides to keep going. It's a vicious cycle between you two, always feeding off each other's dimwitted ideas._

 _It's when the man in black walks in that all hell breaks loose._

* * *

 _June 16th, 1968—5:28 PM_

Darry walks back in a short while later. You can visibly see the tension in his shoulders, the way he seems like he's seconds away from screaming or driving his fist into a wall. Angela probably did quite a number on him. What can you say? She has that way with people.

Soda gives him a stiff wave, and you go with a head nod.

"Welp, she's in love with you, Ponyboy," Darry says without so much as an introduction. He motions Sodapop to move his chair over a little and pulls another one right next to him. "Madly, crazy in love with you."

"Well, he's _our_ brother. Any girl out there would be a fool not to be." Soda beams with pride as he says this. "Ain't that right, Darry?"

Darry smiles at the both of you, and you're able to see how at ease he is now that there's some semblance of geniality between the two of them. At least in this very moment of time.

"You're damned right, little buddy." It almost crushes you again, that look that Darry has when he looks at you or Soda, like he's so relieved that you're all in one piece. Like he can't believe you've all made it this far. That look of hope that he wears so achingly on his sleeve. It fucking hurts. "It was all she talked about on the ride home. How great you are. How you ain't like all the other greasy hoods of this town."

Everyone says that. You wish you could see yourself as highly as other people see you. You may not be like all the other hoods in Tulsa, because you're worse. You don't steal or stab or fight (much), but you still hurt people. All the time.

"But what I'd recommend, Pony," —and he gives you a pointed look with that— "is that you'd make it clear what your intentions are. God forbid, if you are having sex with her, you need to let her know what your intentions—"

"Oh, Jesus, oh—Darry, no, come on, I—"

Soda seems to hide a smile at your stammering. He's always found it funny when you get flustered about things like that. Maybe if you were anywhere but in a hospital it would be a funny moment of brotherhood or something stupid like that. But in here, you're confined to one space, backed into a corner with nowhere else to turn. It doesn't feel all that fair.

"Okay," Darry replies, holding his hands up in mock surrender. "I _do_ got the right to worry about these things, Ponyboy."

It's real funny how Darry has changed over the years. Maybe funny isn't the right word for it. Back when he had just been appointed guardianship, he was a bit of a tyrant. He was the one who told you that you were living in a vacuum. That you needed to suck it up. Back then, he would have shouted until he was blue in the face that you shouldn't be having sex and that you should be focusing on school, on grades, on track. Anything but that.

You get why was like that now. He didn't know how to do it different, and he was probably so overwhelmed by things that he took care of it all the only way he knew how. You don't think you would have made it this far if he hadn't.

He was right though (he almost always is), you were living in a vacuum. Not exactly in the way he meant it, but a vacuum that didn't let you see how other people lived. You think that maybe things would have been all different for you if you had thought to step outside yourself and get a new perspective on things. Socs can be good. Greasers can be bad. Darry has reasons for doing what he does.

But you still can't help but wonder if Darry's changed because you've grown up or because he's grown up a little too, loosened the strings as time has gone by.

"We ain't together."

"But you like her?"

"It ain't like that." You roll your eyes, pushing yourself up so you're more comfortably prompted against the pillows. "Why're you so interested in my love life now, Dar?"

He's walking a thin line, trying to distract you so you don't ask questions about what Tim had to say, or what he said back. It was a loud enough screaming match but you still couldn't make out much of what they were saying. Regardless, you get the general idea. Tim's brother's dead and he thinks it's your fault. Darry obviously wouldn't stand for that.

A nurse saves you right around here. She puts something into one of the various tubes. You think that maybe if you had the energy to care, you'd find out what exactly is going on. Instead you rely on Darry to take care of everything for you. Lord knows you've been doing that for ages now.

Sodapop looks green around the gills. "So, Angela was here today, huh?"

"Not just her," you answer, hoping to pry as response out of your oldest brother with what you say next: "Tim, too. Didn't seem real happy. I couldn't get a word in edgewise."

"What?" Soda darts his head back and forth between the two of us. He always gets a bit panicky when he doesn't immediately grasp what's going on. It's the look on his face that shows us he wants answers from one of us, right now. "Why was Tim here?"

Darry keeps his voice low. "I'll talk to you about it later, Sodapop."

Maybe you're still riled up about your confrontation with Soda earlier, or from yelling at Angela, but you're feeling more amplified and alive than you have in a long time. Exhaustion still remains, but it's starting to affect you differently. It's starting to motivate you into getting more answers.

"You can talk about it now, Dar," you say, trying to sound as casual as possible. "It's okay."

"It's nothin', Ponyboy. Nothin' important right now."

"He blames me. Ain't that right, Darry? That's what it was, wasn't it?"

"What?" is exclaimed by Soda the same time Darry launches into his automatic response of, "No, Pony, that ain't it. You ain't gotta focus on that right now. What you need to be worryin' about at this moment is getting better."

"Blames you?" Sodapop continues. "Why on earth would he—"

"Cut it out, Soda," Darry interrupts with a dull wave of his hand. He seems like he's aged suddenly, but you know that they'll be having a long conversation tonight when all is said and done. "Just...not right now, okay, Pepsi?" There's a pit in your stomach so deep it almost hurts. You feel guilty. You do. You know why Tim blames you. He should. You just want to know what he's told Darry. You're just waiting for the other shoe to drop, for Darry to realize that you're more responsible than you let on. When he tells Soda, it'll all be over.

Another nurse comes back. You don't know her by name and you don't recognize her. You feel this nebulous sorrow for not knowing any of their names. For being so self-absorbed. For worrying only about yourself and your reputation when there are others who have it so much worse than you.

You tell her that you want a shower. It's mostly as an excuse to have a second of alone time, but it would actually be nice to have a shower. You wish you could just scrub off the shame and mortification as well; watch it as it all gets washed down the drain.

* * *

 _June 16th, 1968—6:10 PM_

It's a while later when you're finally able to get into the shower. It was an entire debacle with managing the feeding tube and convincing the doctor that you're not too feeble to stand up and be alone in the shower. Luckily, there's one in your room, so if you were to go topside, at least Darry and Sodapop would hear you fall. It almost makes you crack up a little and at this point, you have absolutely no idea why. You feel like every shred of sanity is going out the window.

You turn on the water and let it run, but you don't step into the hospital's excuse for a tub. Instead, you sit straight on the cold ground and press your ear to the beige wood of the door, and listen. Desperate to overhear something, you strain to pick up anything.

"Tim is one sorry son of a bitch for comin' 'round here," Darry's saying. "Havin' some bone to pick with a sick kid. Pickin' on him 'cause he has no one else to mess around with at this point. I swear, I coulda killed him, Soda. The things he was sayin', I just might have..."

"I'm almost glad I wasn't there," Sodapop responds, and you can almost see him in your mind leaning back in his chair. "'Cause I probably would have."

"He said that Pony was responsible for it all somehow. He said some real shit, Sodapop. Real bad. I just don't know what could have possessed him to come here now."

"It ain't like Pony had anything to do with it at all! Right, Dar?" It's that short moment of doubt, though very fleeting, that makes your insides feel like mush. When Sodapop doubts you, you might as well give up right there. It's not like he's wrong, for that matter.

"Of course he had nothin' to do with it, Soda. You remember the report." The police report. You haven't looked at it but Darry, of course, has talked to many officers to get the full story. As full as he can get it. He can read any report he wants but he'll still never know as much as you do about that night.

"Well...should we call some kinda rumble with his gang?"

"What's left of his gang at this point?" Tim's gang has been on a downward trajectory for a while, but Curly getting stabbed and killed was the straw that broke the camel's back, and soon after, it disbanded. Tim Shepard doesn't need your sympathy, but you feel it anyway. You know what it's like to have your entire world around you completely crushed and distorted. "It's sad enough that Ponyboy had to be there that night. He shouldn't have to have it all thrown back in his face. Especially not from some drunk."

"But...but...hear me out now. It's his _brother_ , Dar. I think that maybe I'd be in the same boat if it were one of you. I think I'd tear Tulsa apart tryin' to get to the bottom of it all. Especially 'cause they still don't know who even killed him."

"I get that he's just wantin' to point fingers. Cling on to some false hope, but don't go sympathizin' now. You didn't hear all that he said. The ignorant, horrible shit he said. I saw white. It's scary, sometimes, the things I'd do for the two of you. If we were anywhere but the hospital...God help me, I would have knocked him out to high heaven."

Maybe it's a good thing you didn't hear what was said about you. Obviously by the way Darry was screaming until his vocal cords were worn, and by the way he looked ready to slam his fist into the first person that crossed him funny when Tim left, it must have been bad.

You don't listen anymore. You can't. You thought you could handle this. You thought you wanted to know what Tim said. You thought it would help you prepare for what you're up against. Now you just feel this agonizing sorrow that flows through your blood and rushes through your ears.

You step into the water, cold now at this point. You feel your resolve crack.

When you step out of the shower and back into your hospital bed, there's no reason for them to know that you had even been crying at all.

So you don't let them know.


End file.
